“The house was stifling, Hugh,” she explained hurriedly. “I simply had to come out,” rising. “I’ll walk back with you. My head feels better already.” Wyndham gazed at her in undisguised concern. “I wish I had known--” he began, and broke off. “Come, Millicent.” And slipping his arm inside hers, he led her with gentle determination in the direction of her house. Vera, greatly relieved at having Wyndham take charge of his cousin, was about to rise from her cramped position and follow them, when the razor, which she still clutched, slipped from her grasp and slid down the embankment. Instinctively she reached for it, lost her balance and went plunging down to the roadway. In an instant she was on her feet, the razor once again in hand, and she started forward but, confused by her tumble, she did not realize that she was headed in the wrong direction until she had taken several steps. [Illustration: “Hush!” he whispered. “No noise. Look----”] As she paused she became aware that someone was approaching swiftly down the road, and suddenly awakening to the fact that Millicent and Wyndham were out of sight in the opposite direction, and that it must be long after midnight, she made a few hesitating steps toward a hedge and stopped irresolutely; there was no reason why she should run away. She held up the razor and the sight of the burnished steel in the light from the moon, which had come from behind the obscuring clouds, reassured her. She was not without protection, but a sudden doubt assailed her; how was she to account for the possession of the razor? Millicent might have dropped it in her flight from the house--but why had Millicent carried a razor--it was a toilet article not usually possessed by women. Could it be that Millicent was striving to get rid of the razor surreptitiously? The police were still searching for the set of razors from which had been taken the razor used to kill Bruce Brainard-- Vera’s arm was raised to fling the razor far from her when a hand was clapped over her mouth and she was pulled down in the shadow of the hedge bordering the road. Her startled eyes looked straight at Beverly Thorne. “Hush!” he whispered. “No noise. Look!” And following his pointing finger Vera saw a man run across the opposite field, vault the fence and hurry down the road. He was entirely out of sight before Thorne removed his hand from Vera’s shoulder, and, rising, he helped her up. “Come,” he said, and in silence accompanied her to the Porter mansion. Vera, her ideas too chaotic for utterance, detained him at the side door. “Who was the man we saw run up the road?” she asked. “His figure looked familiar, but I did not get a clear view of his face.” “It was Detective Mitchell,” responded Thorne softly, lifting his cap. “Good night.” Not until she was safely inside the Porter mansion did Vera remember the razor--she gazed blankly at her empty hands. Had she dropped the razor in her excitement or--had Beverly Thorne taken it from her?