“That you found Bruce with his throat cut--” Dorothy drew in her breath sharply. “I never dreamed he would kill himself--” “The coroner’s jury called it murder,” said Vera dully. “Whom do they suspect?” gasped Dorothy. “I imagine Dr. Noyes.” “Dr. Noyes!” in profound astonishment. “Why?” “Chiefly because of his sudden departure without bidding anyone good-by.” “But--but--the motive? Heavens! Did _he_ know Bruce?” And Vera leaned forward from the taxi, so that the moonlight fell full on her face. “He met him last night,” with dry emphasis, and Dorothy moved restlessly. “Listen, Dorothy, I can stay but a moment longer. If you should be questioned, remember that at the inquest I did not mention that I had ever seen Bruce Brainard before last night, and that I have not confided to anyone in the Porter house that I ever heard of him before.” “But--but--Hugh knows.” “Hugh Wyndham!” Vera clutched the door of the car for support. “Did you tell him tonight?” “No, I haven’t seen him for over a week. I--” But Vera did not give her time to finish her sentence. “Dorothy, were you so foolish--my God! you didn’t mention _names_ to Hugh?” Her sister nodded dumbly. From one of the leafless trees far down the lawn an owl hooted derisively as a light footstep crunched the gravel just behind Vera, and she swung quickly about. The front door of the house was wide open and a stream of light illuminated the portico. Millicent Porter, approaching nearer, recognized Vera and her sister, and darted to the side of the car with a glad cry of welcome. “Dorothy, you’ve come!” she exclaimed, seizing her hands. “I told Hugh not to return without you.” Dorothy glanced in speechless surprise from Vera to Millicent, then back, almost pleadingly, to her sister. Vera’s face was set and stern. “Yes, Millicent,” she said quietly. “Dorothy has come to spend the ni--” she stumbled in her speech--“several days,” she amended. CHAPTER VII AT THORNEDALE LODGE A ROW of beautiful trees ran the length of Thornedale Lodge, facing the entrance on the south. They had been planted generations before, and, no allowance made for their increase in height and circumference, towering above the old house, they were landmarks for miles around. Their branches touched the galleries and windows, and in summer their foliage shut out much light and sunshine, but Beverly Thorne scoffed at the idea of dampness and refused to cut down the trees, as his father had refused before him. The stars in their constellation were not more fixed than the customs which had obtained in the old Virginia home. Beverly Thorne crossed the lawn and entered his house, and an anxious-faced negro butler, grown gray in service, came forward to meet him. “Yo’ breakfas’ am served, sah,” he announced, and his soft drawling voice contained a note of reproach. “I done looked ober de whole house fo’ yo’, an’ de things am gettin’ cold.”