“Make this house your headquarters, Mitchell, while investigating Brainard’s murder,” he suggested hospitably. “The nearest road-house is five miles away. Should you require a meal--a telephone--a quiet moment--come here.” The detective looked gratified. “Mighty thoughtful of you, sir,” he said. “And I accept. The Porter house is out of the beaten track, and frankly--” He paused as they reached the large hall which did duty also as a living-room; at least such was the impression gained by Mitchell as he glanced inquiringly around, for the negro boy had taken him into the dining-room through a short passage leading from a side door, and he had not seen the front of the house before. The staircase in the hall was partly concealed by the stone fireplace and huge chimney about which it was built; deep window seats, comfortable lounging-chairs, a few tables, tiger skins, and other fur rugs, added to the hall’s homelike, comfortable appearance, while guns, moose and deer heads and other hunting trophies hung on the walls. Suddenly Mitchell became conscious of his prolonged silence and that Thorne was waiting courteously for him to continue his remark. “Frankly,” he commenced again, “I think the mystery will be solved and the murderer apprehended within forty-eight hours. And in that case, doctor, I’ll not trespass long on your hospitality.” “Come over whenever you care to,” exclaimed Thorne. “I’ll tell Cato to make you comfortable if I am not here.” “Thanks.” Mitchell turned up the collar of his overcoat as Thorne opened the front door, and stood hesitating on the threshold. “Say, doctor,” he suddenly burst out, “you were the first outside the Porter family to see Brainard yesterday morning--what struck you most forcibly about the affair?” Thorne considered the question. “The composure of Nurse Deane,” he said finally. “The young woman who _said_ she was the first to discover the crime.” Mitchell stared at him open-mouthed. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “It is an unheard of thing for a first-class trained nurse to sleep at her post.” Thorne spoke slowly, carefully. “And the transom between the two bedrooms was open.” “But it is over Craig Porter’s bed,” objected Mitchell. “And Nurse Deane couldn’t have looked through the transom without climbing up on his bed.” “I grant you she could not have looked through the transom,” answered Thorne. “But she could _hear_. The slightest sound becomes ‘noise’ at dead of night.” Mitchell’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. “Then you think--” “That Nurse Deane both heard the murder committed and investigated it long before she went to summon Hugh Wyndham--and in that interval she had time to partially recover from shock and exert her self-control which, for a girl of her years, appears little short of marvelous.” There was a brief silence which Mitchell broke. “You’ve given me a new viewpoint,” he said. “So you think Nurse Deane is an accessory after the fact?” “Possibly--through sympathy.”