Noyes took a quick turn up and down the room, and thereby imperiled numerous pieces of bric-à-brac as, blindly ignoring the congested arrangement of Mrs. Porter’s choice heirlooms, he thought over Vera’s statements. “Have they decided whether Brainard’s death was suicide or murder?” he inquired, pausing in front of her. “I believe they consider that--that--he did not kill himself.” Noyes listened to her halting sentence with marked impatience. “In other words, you mean that the police believe Brainard was murdered?” She nodded assents. “I gathered that was the consensus of opinion when reading the morning newspapers. And what is your opinion, Miss Deane?” The question was unexpected, and Vera drew back. “I am not qualified to judge,” she commenced confusedly. “From the nature of the wound--” “You take it to be murder?” “No, no,” with unexpected vehemence, and Noyes eyed her sharply. “A man can nick himself with a razor on either side of his throat, and no one be able to tell whether the wound was self-inflicted or done by another with intent to kill.” The twilight had deepened, and Noyes experienced difficulty in reading Vera’s expression. “That does not seem to be the opinion of the deputy coroner, and he performed the autopsy,” Noyes said dryly. “He affirms that the wound could not have been self-inflicted.” “But you are a surgeon,” broke in Vera impetuously. “What did you think when you saw the wound?” Noyes regarded her with singular intentness. “You forget that I left this house before the discovery of Brainard’s death.” “True, you were to sail on the _St. Louis_”--Vera never took her eyes from him. “The steamer has sailed, but you--are here.” “A self-evident fact,” impatiently. “I missed the boat.” “Oh!” The ejaculation was faint, but Noyes started and turned red. “Enough of myself,” he commenced brusquely. “How is Craig Porter?” It was Vera’s turn to redden; she had completely forgotten her patient in her astonishment at Alan Noyes’ unexpected appearance. “Mrs. Hall has just informed Mrs. Porter that Craig appears to be worse, and she has sent for Dr. Beverly Thorne.” “Indeed? I wonder--” He did not complete his sentence, but fell into moody silence which Vera forbore to break. Mrs. Hall was with Craig Porter; she was not needed in the sick room for nearly three hours, and, except for dinner, her time until eight o’clock was her own. The alteration in Alan Noyes puzzled her; his pleasant reserved manner had given place to brusque inquisitiveness but indifferently masked. What had brought about the change? Speculating was idle work, and she was about to address him when he spoke. “I have not inquired for Miss Porter; is she well?”