“Good morning, Hugh,” she said, returning her nephew’s kiss with warmth. Pad and pencil in hand, she was on her way to make her weekly inventory of household supplies, a habit clung to as year succeeded year, and never delegated to the most trusted servant. She seldom permitted circumstances to alter the daily routine. “Dorothy, will you be here all day?” “Yes, Mrs. Porter; this is my day off from the _Tribune_.” With a relieved air Mrs. Porter walked toward the pantry. “Will you stay upstairs with Millicent, Dorothy, until I return?” she asked. “Mrs. Hall is still with her, but--” Mrs. Porter let the swing door close and beckoned her nephew and Dorothy to come nearer. “I am dissatisfied with Mrs. Hall,” she went on in an undertone. “In the last week her manner to me is totally altered--” “Perhaps she resents your fondness for Vera,” suggested Wyndham, as Dorothy made no remark. “Professional jealousy may account for any peculiarity of manner.” “That is possible,” acknowledged Mrs. Porter. “She is an excellent nurse, and until lately has been eminently satisfactory. I shall be greatly obliged, Dorothy, if you will go at once to Millicent and stay with her until I return.” And, not waiting for an answer, she entered the pantry. Wyndham accompanied Dorothy into the hall and strove by an appealing gesture to detain her for a few more words. “I really can’t stop,” she protested, as he imprisoned her hand. “Mrs. Porter is frightened about Millicent--and yet, Mrs. Hall told me it was only a feverish cold, and that while she was running a temperature, she was not seriously ill. What induced Millicent to go for a walk in the grounds after midnight?” Getting no response, she added nervously, “What was her object?” “Her object?” Wyndham’s thoughts turned reluctantly from Dorothy to what she was saying. “Oh, Millicent told me the house was stuffy and that she had a headache and needed air.” “Is that all?” Dorothy’s relief was manifest. “She came into my room on her return and awoke me. When I questioned her as to where she had been her manner was so mysterious that I concluded she was hiding something.” “Hiding something?” repeated Wyndham mechanically, as Mrs. Hall’s words recurred to him; Millicent in delirium stated that she had “hidden something”--could that something be the extra razors which the enterprising reporter in the morning newspaper hinted were secreted somewhere about the Porter homestead? The thought was startling. In his preoccupation Wyndham hardly noticed that Dorothy had freed her hand and run up the staircase. He stared in front of him in deep thought for several minutes, then, his decision taken, he picked up his cane and hat and went outdoors.