Mrs. Porter elevated her eyebrows as she looked at Dorothy and murmured in an audible aside, “Clothed in a little brief authority;” then, addressing Mitchell, who was following them to the door, “Mr. Mitchell, in the absence of my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, I must remind you that I cannot permit you or your assistants to intrude upon the privacy of my family.” “Except in the line of duty, madam.” Mitchell’s tone matched hers. “This case must be thoroughly investigated, no matter who is involved. Miss Deane, kindly inform your sister that I must see her at the earliest possible moment.” “She will see you when she is disengaged, and not before,” retorted Mrs. Porter, wrath getting the better of her judgment, and laying an imperious hand on Dorothy’s arm she conducted her from the room. Mitchell turned back and paced up and down the library for over five minutes, then paused in front of the telephone stand. “So the old lady is hostile,” he muttered, turning the leaves of the telephone directory. “And Pope isn’t back yet--” He ran his finger down the list of names and at last found the one he sought. Hitching the telephone nearer he repeated a number into the mouthpiece, and a second later was talking with Beverly Thorne. “What, doctor, you don’t wish to come here again!” ejaculated the detective, as Thorne refused his first request. “Now, don’t let that fool feud interfere with your helping me, doctor. I assure you you can be of the greatest assistance, and as justice of the peace I think there is no other course open to you. Yes, I want you right away--you’ll come? I shan’t forget it, doctor. I’ll meet you at the door.” And with a satisfied smile the detective hung up the receiver and went in search of Murray. Mitchell, twenty minutes later, stood twirling his thumbs in the front hall; his growing impatience was finally rewarded by the ringing of the front bell, and before the butler could get down the hall he had opened the door and was welcoming Thorne. “We’ll go upstairs, doctor,” said Mitchell, after Thorne had surrendered his hat and overcoat to Selby, and stood waiting the detective’s pleasure. “Selby, ask Miss Vera Deane to join us at once--” “I am here,” cut in a voice from the stair landing, and Vera stepped into view. Her eyes traveled past the detective and rested on Beverly Thorne with an intentness which held his own gaze. Totally oblivious of Mitchell and the butler they continued to stare at each other. Suddenly the carmine crept up Vera’s white cheeks, and she turned to Mitchell, almost with an air of relief. “What is it you wish?” “A few minutes’ chat with you,” answered the detective, mounting the stairs. “Suppose we go into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom. Will you lead the way?” waiting courteously on the landing, but there was an appreciable pause before Vera complied with his request, and it was a silent procession of three which the butler saw disappear upstairs.