“While I never talked to Mrs. Porter until yesterday, Mitchell,” continued Thorne, laying down the stub of his cigar, “I’ve had a slight acquaintance with Wyndham, and one not calculated to make me popular with him.” “How’s that, doctor?” “Oh, in my capacity of justice of the peace I’ve had to fine him for speeding,” responded Thorne. “I believe Noyes was with him on one of these occasions, but he stayed out in the motor car.” “I wonder whose motor Noyes used to leave the Porters’ early yesterday morning,” mused Mitchell. “Pshaw! there’s little use in speculating along that line. We’ve proved his alibi was true.” “Indeed? You mean--” “That a cipher cablegram was telephoned out to him from New York yesterday morning between two and three, and if Mrs. Porter’s testimony is to be relied on--and I see no reason to doubt it now--Noyes must have made straight for New York and is aboard the S. S. _St. Louis_, of the American Line. She sailed for Liverpool, and I’ve wirelessed out, but haven’t received an answer from the ship.” “So that clears Noyes,” commented Thorne. “Yes, I suppose it does,” but Mitchell’s tone was doubtful. “It doesn’t explain Miss Millicent Porter’s curious behavior at the inquest. Judging by her manner and her testimony, she _believes_ Noyes guilty.” “Miss Porter was in a very hysterical state, hardly accountable for her actions.” Thorne paused and examined his nicotine-stained fingers with interest. “Have you unearthed any evidence against Hugh Wyndham?” “Well”--Mitchell hesitated, and shot a sidelong glance at his host--“nothing tangible against him--but if we eliminate Noyes it’s got to be Wyndham.” Before answering, Thorne refilled his coffee-cup. “Wyndham--or an outsider,” he said. “Not a chance of the latter.” Mitchell spoke with absolute confidence. “I’ve examined every lock and bolt on the doors and windows; not one is broken or out of order, and both the butler and footman declare all windows and doors were locked on the ground floor yesterday morning as usual. Take it from me, doctor, no one broke into that house to murder Brainard. No one except the dinner guests and Mrs. Porter’s household knew Brainard was spending the night there. I tell you,” emphasizing his words by striking the table with his clenched fist, “it was an inside job.” “It would seem so,” acknowledged Thorne, who had listened closely to Mitchell’s statement. “Were you at the Porters’ last night, Mitchell?” “No, I had to go in to Washington, but I left Pope there, and I returned early this morning and sent Pope in to Alexandria to get some breakfast and bring me my share. He’s never appeared.” Mitchell smiled ruefully. “But for you, doctor, I’d have fared badly. I greatly appreciate your hot breakfast,” he added, as he rose somewhat awkwardly and pushed back his chair. Thorne was slower in rising from the table than his guest.