A nod sufficed in answer as Wyndham spied the morning newspaper, and paying no further attention to the footman he turned sheet after sheet with feverish haste. With little to feed upon, excitement about the Brainard murder had abated, and the column devoted to it had been relegated to the third page. The reporter assigned to the case had evidently had difficulty in finding a new angle in handling the mystery, and had devoted his energies to concocting an ingenious résumé. But one paragraph near the bottom of the column riveted Wyndham’s attention. Detective Mitchell, when interviewed last night, confirmed the report that events in the career of Bruce Brainard before he came to Washington were being investigated, and a thorough search made into the dead man’s private affairs. Brainard was a self-made man, and while a student at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute at Troy, N. Y., he spent his summer vacations working as private secretary to the Director of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington. Brainard afterward made a name for himself in his profession, and was one of the recognized high-salaried consulting engineers of this country. All efforts to establish the ownership of the razor used to kill Brainard have been unproductive of result. The detectives claim the razor is one of a set, but where and by whom the other razors of the set have been hidden in the Porter homestead is a mystery. “Deviled kidney, sir,” prompted Murray, presenting a piping hot dish, and Wyndham, with a thoughtful air, laid down the newspaper and commenced his breakfast. “Where is Mrs. Porter?” he inquired presently. “Breakfasting upstairs, sir.” Murray, who had brought in a fresh supply of coffee, hastened to fill Wyndham’s empty cup. “Selby is serving her and Miss Dorothy in the boudoir. Have another muffin, sir?” As Wyndham attacked his third muffin with unabated appetite, Dorothy Deane strolled into the dining-room, and he rose to place a chair for her, his face brightening at her entrance. “It was very unkind of you not to wait and have breakfast with me,” he said reproachfully, as she declined Murray’s offer of a cup of hot coffee. “Mrs. Porter asked me to stay with her. I only ran down thinking that Vera might be getting her breakfast.” Wyndham looked as hurt as he felt. “I am sorry--” he said stiffly. Impulsively Dorothy extended her hand and he clasped it eagerly, and Murray, his solemn countenance relieved by a sympathetic smile, discreetly vanished. “Don’t,” she pleaded brokenly, “don’t find fault with me. I--I can’t stand it from you.”