“A good idea.” Mitchell walked briskly toward the door. “You watch, doctor,” and he stood aside for Vera to step past him into the hall, then followed her outside and closed the door securely behind him. Barely waiting for their departure, Thorne moved over to the chair on which lay Brainard’s clothes, and hurriedly searched the few pockets of the dress suit, only to find them empty. Evidently the police had taken charge of whatever had been in them. He was just turning away when the door opened without a sound and Vera, her white linen skirt slightly drawn up, slipped into the room and with stealthy tread crept toward the bed. Thorne watched her, fascinated by her unconscious grace and her air of grim determination. He instinctively realized that the test she had suggested was repugnant to her high-strung, sensitive nature, and only his strong will conquered his intense desire to end the scene. As close as he was to her he heard no sound; but for the evidence of his eyes he could have sworn that he was alone in the room. He saw her turn to approach the head of the bed, falter, and draw back, and was by her side instantly. She looked at him half dazed, and but for his steadying hand would have measured her length on the ground. He read the agony in her eyes and responded to the unconscious appeal. “Come back, Mitchell,” he called, and while he pitched his voice as low as possible its carrying qualities reached the detective in Craig Porter’s bedroom, and he hurried into the next room in time to see Thorne offer Vera his silver flask. “No, I don’t need it,” she insisted, pushing his hand away. “It was but a momentary weakness. I have had very little sleep for the past forty-eight hours, and am unstrung. If you have no further questions to ask me, Mr. Mitchell, I will return to my room.” Before replying Mitchell looked at Thorne. “Did she do as she said she would?” he asked. “I heard nothing in the next room until you called me.” “Yes. Frankly, had I not seen Miss Deane open the door and enter this room I would have thought myself alone,” responded Thorne. “The carpet is thick.” Mitchell leaned down and passed his hand over it. “It would deaden any sound of footsteps. You are sure that you heard no talking in here Monday night, Miss Deane?” “I have already said that I did not,” retorted Vera, and she made no attempt to keep the bitterness she was feeling out of her voice. “It seems very hard to convince you, Mr. Mitchell, that I am not a liar.” Thorne, who had been staring at the bed-table, looked up quickly. “Did you see a razor lying on this table when you arranged the night light for Brainard, Miss Deane?” he asked. “No.” Vera sighed; would they never cease questioning her? “That brass bell, the glass night light, empty medicine glass, and water caraffe were the only articles on the table.” Mitchell went over to the foot of the bed. “Just whereabouts on the bed did you see the razor yesterday morning?” he asked.