Vera, who stood with her back almost touching the bed, turned reluctantly around. It was a high four-post bedstead and required a short flight of steps to mount into it, but some vandal had shortened the four beautifully carved posts to half their height and the canopy had also been removed. The figure lay huddled face down, for which Vera was deeply grateful. Even in its dark hair she visualized the tortured features of Bruce Brainard, and she turned with a shudder to point to a spot on the bed just below the sleeve of the pyjamas which clothed the figure. “The razor lay there,” she announced positively. “Thanks.” Mitchell closed and pocketed his notebook. “Now, one more question, Miss Deane, and then we will let you off. At what time yesterday morning did you go to summon Dr. Noyes?” “To be exact, at twenty minutes of six.” “And what hour was it when you first discovered the murder?” Vera stared at him dazedly, then her trembling hand clutched the bedclothes for support, but as her fingers closed over the sleeve of the pyjamas they encountered bone and muscle. With senses reeling she half collapsed in Thorne’s arms as the figure rolled over and disclosed Murray’s agitated countenance. “H-he m-made m-me do it, miss,” the footman stuttered, pointing an accusing finger at Mitchell. “Said he wanted to play a trick on Dr. Thorne; but if I’d dreamed he wanted to scare you, miss, I’d never have agreed, never. And I’ve been lying here in agony, miss, afraid to speak because I might scare you to death, and hoping you’d leave the room without knowing about me. If Mrs. Porter ever hears!” Murray gazed despairingly at them. “She wouldn’t have minded me making a fool of Dr. Thorne. Oh, Miss Deane, don’t look at me like that!” and his voice shook with feeling. “It’s all right,” gasped Vera, standing shakily erect; Murray’s jumbled explanation had given her time to recover her poise. She turned to Detective Mitchell, her eyes blazing with indignation. “The farce is ended, sir, and my answer to your last question is the same--I found Mr. Brainard lying here with his throat cut at twenty minutes of six. Good afternoon.” And she left the three men contemplating each other. CHAPTER IX IN THE ATTIC THE high wind sweeping around the Porter mansion in ever increasing volume found an echo under the eaves, and the attic in consequence resounded with dismal noises. Much of the space under the sloping roof had been given up to the storage of trunks and old furniture, but on the side facing the Potomac River wooden partitions divided that part of the attic into rooms for servants.