“Discussing me?” And Dorothy Deane appeared at Wyndham’s elbow. There was a distinct pause as she recognized Millicent’s companion, and her cheeks, rosy from her long motor ride in the wind, paled. “Oh!” she ejaculated, with an attempt at lightness which deceived but one of her hearers. “The wanderer has returned.” “Yes--returned to you,” was Wyndham’s quiet rejoinder, and his eyes never left her. “It was very careless of you, Dorothy, not to leave word at the office that you were coming out here last night.” “If I had mentioned it the managing editor would have insisted that I cover”--she stopped and colored painfully--“new developments for the paper.” Wyndham transferred his attention to his cousin. “New developments,” he repeated. “Have there been any since I left last night?” His question did not receive an immediate reply, for Millicent had not paid strict attention to their conversation, being absorbed in secreting the sheets torn from her diary inside her gown. “Nothing new,” she responded dully. “The detectives are still looking for clues, and under that pretense poking their noses into everyone’s concerns.” “Let them. Who cares?” But Wyndham did not look so care-free as his words implied. “Brainard’s death is a seven days’ wonder in Washington, Millicent; so be prepared for all sorts of sensational stories. Our friends will talk themselves to a standstill after a time.” “I suppose sensational stories are to be expected,” admitted Millicent, and she moved restlessly away from her chair. “But what are Bruce’s friends doing?” Wyndham looked at her quickly. “I don’t understand you--” “I mean what steps are Bruce’s friends taking to trace the--the murderer?” Wyndham took a newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Brainard’s brother has offered a reward of five thousand dollars for the arrest of the criminal,” he stated, pointing to an article in the paper. Dorothy broke the silence with an impatient stamp of her foot. “The fool!” she exclaimed. “He’d better have waited until it’s proven beyond doubt that it was a murder and not a suicide.” The newspaper crinkled in Millicent’s hand as she took it, and Wyndham, his eyes roving about the cozy corner, stated quietly: “The police have found that Brainard never shaved himself, but went every morning to a barber shop just below his apartment house. Apparently he never owned a razor, and the police seem to think that evidence precludes all possibility of suicide.” “I don’t see why,” protested Millicent, looking up from the paper. “If Bruce contemplated suicide he could have purchased a razor.”