Mitchell was the first to speak as they gathered about the bedroom door. “Nice dainty little watch charm to carry about with me,” he said, holding up a massive brass key which measured at least six inches in length, with a ward in proportion. “Did you lock Mr. Brainard’s door, Miss Deane, on Monday night when you returned to your other patient?” “No, I left the door unlocked, but closed.” Vera spoke with an effort. “As you see, Mr. Mitchell, the old lock turns with difficulty, and I feared the noise it makes”--a protesting squeak from the interior of the lock as Mitchell turned the key illustrated her meaning--“would disturb Mr. Brainard.” “It needs oiling, that’s a fact.” Mitchell flung open the unlocked door. “Come right in,” he said, and stalked ahead of them. Vera paused on the threshold and half turned as if to go back, but Thorne’s figure blocked the doorway. Slowly, with marked reluctance, she advanced into the bedroom, and at a sign from Mitchell, who was watching her every movement, Thorne closed the door, his expression inscrutable. “Look about, Miss Deane,” directed Mitchell, sitting down and drawing out his notebook. “I want you to study each article in the room and tell us if it is just where it stood at the time you discovered Brainard had been murdered. Sit down, if you wish,” indicating a chair near him. “Thanks, I prefer to stand.” Vera eyed the two men, then did as she was bidden, but as she looked about the bedroom she was considering the motive underlying the detective’s request. What did he hope to learn from her? How dared he make her a stalking horse, and in the presence of Beverly Thorne! The thought bred hot resentment, but the red blood flaming her cheeks receded as quickly as it had come at sight of a figure stretched out in the bed under the blood-stained sheets and blankets. A slight scream escaped her and she recoiled. “It is only a dummy,” explained Mitchell hastily, laying a soothing hand on her arm. She shrank from his touch. “I realize it now,” said Vera, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I had not expected to find it there.” “Do you see any changes in the room, Miss Deane?” asked Mitchell, as she lapsed into silence. Vera, who had been gazing at the figure in the bed as if hypnotized, turned mechanically about and inspected the bedroom. The window curtains had been drawn back and the shades raised, and the room was flooded with light. Catching a glimpse of herself in the huge antique mirror above the mantelpiece as she turned her back to the bed, Vera was startled to see how white and drawn her reflection appeared in its clear depths, and surreptitiously rubbed her cheeks to restore their color.