“True, but investigation proves that he did not buy a razor at any of the dealers handling them in Washington, or at a pawnshop. I must admit the police have been very thorough in their search,” acknowledged Wyndham. “It’s all in the evening papers.” He stopped for a moment, then added steadily, “I think, no matter how terrible we find the idea, that we must accept the theory that Brainard was murdered.” Millicent caught her breath. “I don’t agree with you,” she retorted obstinately. “Are we meekly to consider ourselves murderers just because Bruce never, apparently, owned a razor?” “You are right,” declared Dorothy, but her manner, to Wyndham’s watchful eyes, indicated that she was clutching at a straw rather than announcing her convictions. “Some friend might have loaned him a razor-- Heavens! what’s that?” A loud hail sounded up the staircase. “Millicent! Millicent!” and they recognized Mrs. Porter’s angry accents. “Why in the world are you staying in that cold attic? Come down at once.” “Yes, mother.” Millicent started for the staircase, casting an appealing look at Dorothy as she passed her, and in mute response the latter turned to follow, but at the top of the stairs Wyndham laid a detaining hand on her shoulder. “Wait,” he entreated, and as he met her wistful, frightened glance he repressed with difficulty the emotion that threatened to master him. “Dorothy, never forget I have your interests at heart to the exclusion of all else.” “Hush!” She raised a trembling hand to his lips, and seizing it he pressed it against his cheeks. “Dear, how cold you are!” he murmured fondly, caressing her hand. “Hush!” she reiterated. “Hugh, you must not--this is not the time--” “It is,” with obstinate fervor. “You cannot have forgotten--” “Forgotten?” Dorothy started as if stung. “Would to heaven I could!” “Then you understand?” She looked at him dumbly. “You are sure you understand?” Through a mist of tears Dorothy studied him, and as she met his imploring gaze a wave of tenderness sent her other hand to meet his eager clasp; then horror of herself, of her thoughts, checked her wild longing to throw herself into his arms, and she drew back. “It is because I understand,” she said, steadying her voice with an effort, “that I shall never cease to reproach myself--” “Stop!” Wyndham held up an imperative hand. “You must not reproach yourself. Bruce Brainard deserved what he got. I tell you he did--” noting her expression. “It was justifiable homicide.” CHAPTER X THE BLACK-EDGED CARD THE hall clock was just striking three on Thursday afternoon when Murray stopped before the room occupied jointly by Mrs. Hall and Vera and rapped smartly on the closed door. It was opened by Vera. “You are wanted at the telephone, miss,” the footman announced, and she stepped into the hall. “Who wants me, Murray?” “The party wouldn’t give his name.” “Oh!” Vera’s footsteps lagged. “Did you recognize the voice?”