Dawn was breaking and the faint, fresh breeze of early morning parted the curtains before a window and disclosed to an inquisitive snow robin a figure bending over a stationary washstand. Quickly the skilled fingers made a paste of raw starch and, spreading it gently over the stained linen, let it stand for a moment, then rinsed it in cold water. With great patience the operation was repeated until at last the linen, once more spotless, was laid across an improvised ironing-board, and an electric iron soon smoothed out each crease and wrinkle. Leaving every article in its accustomed place, the worker paused for an instant, then stole from the bathroom and through the silent house. CHAPTER II TRAGEDY “RAT-A-TAT! Rat-a-tat-tat!” The imperative summons on his bedroom door roused Hugh Wyndham. It seemed but a moment since he had fallen asleep, and he listened in uncomprehending surprise to the repeated drummings, which grew in volume and rapidity. His hesitancy was but momentary, however, and springing out of bed he seized a bathrobe, unlocked the door and jerked it open with such precipitancy that Vera Deane’s clenched fist expended its force on empty air instead of on the wooden panel. Her livid face changed the words on Wyndham’s lips. “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Craig isn’t--?” “No--no--not Mr. Porter”--in spite of every effort to remain calm Vera was on the point of fainting. Totally unconscious of her action she laid her hand in Wyndham’s, and his firm clasp brought a touch of comfort. “It’s B--Mr. Brainard. Come!” And turning, she sped down the hall, her rubber-heeled slippers making no more sound on the thick carpet than Wyndham’s bare feet. She paused before a partly opened door and, resting against the wall, her strength deserting her, she signed to her companion to enter the bedroom. Without wasting words Wyndham dashed by the nurse and reached the foot of the bed; but there he stopped, and a horrified exclamation broke from him. Bruce Brainard lay on the once spotless white linen in a pool of blood which had flowed from a frightful gash across his throat. Wyndham passed a shaking hand before his eyes and turned blindly toward the door and collided with Vera. “Don’t come in,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s no spectacle for a woman.” And as she drew back into the hall again he burst out almost violently: “God! Brainard can’t be dead, really dead?” He glared at her. “Why didn’t you go for Noyes instead of me? He’d know what to do.” Vera shook her head. “Mr. Brainard was lifeless when I found him”--her voice gained steadiness as her years of training in city hospitals and still grimmer experiences in the American Hospital Corps abroad came to her aid, and she grew the more composed of the two. “I went first to summon Dr. Noyes--but his room was empty.”