Wyndham was totally unconscious of the beauty of the morning as he strode along, retracing the path by which he and Millicent had returned after their meeting at the foot of the embankment early that morning. Upon reaching the highway he kept to the public road, and as he approached the embankment he saw a man, at some distance beyond the point for which he was aiming, emerge from a break in the hedge separating Thornedale from the public road, and walk rapidly toward the embankment. Drawing closer to the newcomer Wyndham recognized Beverly Thorne and instinctively quickened his pace, and the two men arrived simultaneously at the embankment. With a curt bob of his head and a mumbled “Good morning,” Wyndham made as if to continue his walk down the road, but turning his head quickly he saw Thorne had stopped and was carelessly swinging his riding crop up and down and thereby creating havoc in the creeping myrtle which covered the space between the road and the embankment. Wyndham wheeled about and was by Thorne’s side in an instant. Suppose the surgeon inadvertently chanced upon Millicent’s hiding-place--for that his theory was right Wyndham had come to believe in his walk to the embankment. How Millicent had ever acquired possession of the razors could be investigated later; at the moment it was his business to prevent others, particularly Thorne, who must be familiar with that section of his land, from stumbling upon any evidence which might incriminate-- “Have a cigarette, Thorne,” he said, hastily producing his silver case. “Great day, isn’t it?” Thorne eyed him in surprise, then, concealing a faint hesitancy, accepted a cigarette and also a proffered match. “Much obliged,” he said politely. “How is your cousin, Mr. Porter, this morning?” “Better, much better.” Wyndham was watching his companion narrowly; he had only exchanged a few words with him on the few occasions they had met. “My aunt appreciated your coming so promptly in response to her message, and we were both sorry to put you to the trouble--” “It was no trouble,” replied Thorne brusquely; sensitive as he was to his neighbors’ dislike of him, he was quick to resent what he construed to be a touch of patronage in Wyndham’s manner. An awkward pause followed as each man waited for the other to walk on. Wyndham was a poor hand at manufacturing small talk; he did not care to discuss with anyone whom Mrs. Porter disliked intensely the happenings of the week, yet Bruce Brainard’s murder and its attendant mystery were uppermost in his mind, and he could think of nothing else to speak about. Thorne, watching him closely, embarrassed him still further by remaining obstinately silent. They could not stand by the roadside contemplating each other for the remainder of the morning, but Wyndham was determined not to leave until Thorne did.