Thorne observed which way his guest’s attention was straying and smiled, well pleased; he was proud of the historic old house. “This is one of the pleasantest rooms,” he said, pushing the toast rack near the detective. “Try some toast; it’s hot.” “Thanks.” Mitchell enjoyed his breakfast for a few minutes in silence. “Is this house older than the Porter mansion?” “Same age; in fact my great-great-grandfather built them both,” answered Thorne. “But this was only a hunting lodge, while the Porter homestead was a mansion house, and is pure Georgian in architecture.” “It’s the best-looking house in this country,” affirmed Mitchell enthusiastically. “Pity to have a gruesome crime committed inside its old walls.” “You are sure it was a crime?” asked Thorne, stirring his coffee and then sipping it gingerly. “A murder?” Mitchell stared at him in surprise. “Of course I’m sure that it was a murder. Didn’t the medical evidence prove that the wound could not have been self-inflicted?” “The deputy coroner gave that as his belief, with one reservation--the wound could have been self-inflicted if Bruce Brainard was left-handed.” “Which he wasn’t,” declared Mitchell positively. “I have questioned all who knew Brainard, and they swear he was right-handed. So there you are, doctor, with a case of proven murder.” Thorne laid down a fresh piece of toast untasted on his plate. “I take exception to Deputy Coroner McPherson’s theory that the wound from its appearance could not have been self-inflicted,” he announced slowly. “Any surgeon will tell you that it is next to impossible to tell with any degree of accuracy at exactly which point the razor first entered the flesh. Brainard might have gashed himself by holding the razor in his right hand with the full intention of committing suicide, and opened the carotid artery. In that way he could have inflicted just such a wound as killed him.” Mitchell moved impatiently. “Why didn’t you mention that at the inquest?” he grumbled. “Because I was not called as a witness.” The detective ruminated silently for some moments, casting frequent glances at his host. “Well, perhaps an expert can tear the medical evidence to pieces at the trial, but there’s one point you overlook, doctor,” he argued. “But if it was suicide, where did Brainard get the razor? Everyone admits, including Mrs. Porter, that he had not expected to spend the night, and he did not bring a pair of pyjamas; only had the clothes on his back, a dress suit. Mr. Wyndham admitted in the presence of the coroner yesterday that Mr. Brainard did not see his overcoat after he was taken ill, and Murray, the footman, states that it hung in the coat closet until I took it down to examine it.” Mitchell paused and added impressively: “I’ll stake my reputation that Brainard had no razor when he was put to bed, therefore he could not have committed suicide. He was murdered by someone inside the house.”