The Moving Finger

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “I’se late, but I’se hyar, sah.”

  “So I see, Cato, but come out of the moonlight.” And he pulled the old servant into the shelter of the woods. “What news?”

  “Ain’t none,” tersely; the climb up the hillside had been both steep and hard, and the old negro was short of breath. The stillness remained unbroken for several minutes except for the hoot of a screech owl, at which the negro jumped nervously, then seeing that his companion had started down the hillside he made what speed he could after him. They were skirting the hedge which marked the southern boundary of Thornedale when a hand was laid on Cato’s shoulder.

  “Go home, Cato,” directed the counterfeiter. “Don’t wait for me tonight, I’ll be along presently.”

  “Yessir,” promised Cato, peering cautiously at him. “Yo’ am sure—” An impatient nod checked Cato, and he thankfully withdrew, making his way to Thornedale with infinite caution. The counterfeiter watched him until he was lost from sight in the grove of trees about the house, then turned his attention to the Porter mansion. But his wary progress in that direction was checked by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and he had but time to sink down behind the friendly hedge when a figure loomed ahead silhouetted against the skyline in the moonlight.

  “Eleven, twelve,” chimed the hall clock, and the sound carried through the open door of Craig Porter’s bedroom to Dr. Alan Noyes sitting by the paralytic’s bedside. Noyes looked up and rose as Vera Deane came over to the bed.

  “Mr. Porter responds quickly to medicine,” he said, keeping his voice low-pitched. “And he has at last fallen asleep. I think we may safely believe that his relapse of this afternoon was but temporary.”

  “Thank God for that—his poor mother!” Vera spoke with deep feeling. “I am afraid she will be our next patient, doctor.”

  Noyes looked grave. “Mrs. Porter has had a trying year; anxiety for her son, Monday’s tragedy—” His gesture was eloquent. “Try and humor her as much as you can, Miss Deane; her frayed nerves won’t stand opposition.” He took an undecided step across the room. “Mr. Porter is so much improved that I will go and lie down. Call me at once should Mr. Porter awaken and any alarming symptoms appear.”

  “Very well, doctor.” Vera’s eyes strayed from his haggard face to his empty coat sleeve, and with difficulty she controlled all evidence of curiosity. Before he reached the door she again spoke to him: “Are you occupying your same room?” she asked.

  Noyes looked his impatience. “Yes, I am,” he said, and his manner was far from gracious. “Good night, Miss Deane.”

  “Good night, sir,” and Vera closed the hall door.

  Everything had been arranged in the sick room for the night, and Vera selected a chair farthest from the night light and near her patient, and prepared for a long vigil. But while she continued to gaze steadily at Craig Porter, every sense alive to catch his need of careful nursing, she could not center her thoughts on her patient.

  Slowly she reviewed the happenings of the day—her meeting with Beverly Thorne; his possession of the black-edged card. Was it mere chance, Fate or Fury which had entwined their paths? Could she place dependence upon Thorne? Her heart beat more swiftly and a vivid blush dyed her cheeks as recollection rose of the message his eyes conveyed as they stood together at Diamond Rock barely eight hours before. Pshaw! she was not impressionable, like Dorothy and Millicent—and experience had taught her something of man’s duplicity.

  Vera blinked violently, and leaned over to smooth out an infinitesimal wrinkle from the white sheet. Craig Porter had not awakened, and she forced thoughts of Beverly Thorne out of her mind and instead endeavored to recall her scene with Mrs. Porter in the library. As she remembered the expression in the older woman’s eyes when she had asked, “Who in this household would have a motive for killing Bruce Brainard?” Vera turned cold. Why had she not obliged Mrs. Porter to give a direct answer to her own question—at least she would have had her suspicions either confirmed or denied; any alternative would have been preferable to the intolerable suspense she was enduring.

  She passed a hand before her eyes, and her thoughts took a new trend. What had brought Alan Noyes back to the Porters’ when he—The opening of the hall door abruptly terminated her troubled reflections, and she rose as Mrs. Porter entered the room.

  Without speaking Mrs. Porter tiptoed over to the bed and gazed long and earnestly at her son.

  “Is he really asleep?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Mrs. Porter. Won’t you take my chair?” placing it for her.

  Mrs. Porter seated herself, drawing Vera down to sit on the arm in order that she might speak confidentially and not raise her voice.

  “I can do nothing with Millicent,” she said wearily. “Arguments, commands, are of no avail; she will not go to bed, will not even slip on her wrapper and lie down on the lounge. She declares that she cannot sleep, that she must have ‘air, air.’” Mrs. Porter pushed her hair off her forehead. “She even threatens to go for a walk.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes. I thought of sending for your sister to quiet her, but concluded to come for you. Your nursing experience can decide if she needs a sedative.”

  “Shall I call Dr. Noyes to attend her?”

  “No.” Mrs. Porter’s mouth closed obstinately. “Except that her manner is a trifle wild and her cheeks unduly flushed, Millicent seems rational. You have great influence with her, Vera; go and quiet her.”

  “But I cannot leave your son.”

  “Yes, you can; I will stay here until you return.” Mrs. Porter spoke authoritatively and Vera hesitated, Noyes’ caution of the moment before recurring to her; he had told her that Mrs. Porter should be humored, and there was nothing for her to do but obey his instructions. She looked again at Craig Porter, whose closed eyes and regular breathing indicated that his sleep was uninterrupted. If Millicent did require medical attendance she could summon Dr. Noyes and Mrs. Hall, and return to her regular duties. A thought occurred to her, and she turned back to Mrs. Porter.

  “Would you like me to call Mrs. Hall?”

  “Mercy, no!” Mrs. Porter frowned; she objected to suggestions, no matter how well meant they were. “Go at once, Vera, I do not like to leave Millicent alone for any length of time. She is sitting in the boudoir.”

  With a last look at her patient; Vera left the room and sought the boudoir; it was empty. She went at once to Millicent’s bedroom and, her gentle tap getting no response, she opened the door and went in. Millicent was not there, and, somewhat perplexed, Vera looked into the communicating dressing-room and from there passed into her sister’s bedroom. Dorothy was lying asleep on the bed, her gaslight turned low, but as Vera bent over her she saw traces of recent tears on her pale cheeks and forbore to wake her.

  Returning to the hall she stood debating as to whether to report to Mrs. Porter or continue her search for Millicent on the first floor. She decided to go back to Mrs. Porter, but as she paused in front of the door of Craig Porter’s bedroom a faint noise caused her to look hastily down the hall just as Millicent emerged from the attic stairs and disappeared down the back staircase. The acetylene lights at either end of the long hall were burning dimly, as Mrs. Porter deemed it unsafe to keep the house in darkness, and Vera saw that Millicent was enveloped in some sort of a cloak.

  Considerably perturbed, Vera hesitated, but only for a moment; then she sped after Millicent. Mrs. Porter was on guard in the sick room, and she had sent her to look after her daughter. If Millicent, in a moment of delirium perhaps, attempted to walk abroad at that hour of the night she must be reasoned with and stopped.

  Vera’s disturbed ideas took form as she dashed downstairs, the sound of her approach deadened by her rubber-soled shoes. She was halfway down the circular staircase when she saw Millicent fumbling with the lock, by aid of the moonlight streaming through the fanlight over the side door. The clang of the night chain when Millicent unhooked it drowned Vera’s low-voiced call, and, sna
tching up a small bundle which she had placed on a console, Millicent darted out into the night. Her foot turned just as she was about to descend the few steps leading to the graveled path, and only her outflung hand saved her from a nasty fall. Recovering herself and never glancing behind her, she hastened up the path, being careful, however, to tread only on the turf.

  Vera, unmindful of the chill wind and her coatless condition, paused only long enough to close the door, then hurried after Millicent. She had taken but a few steps beyond the house when her foot struck against something which whizzed ahead of her, and she caught the glint of moonlight on metal. Catching up with the small object, she stooped over and picked it up. It was a razor.

  Vera’s heart beat with suffocating rapidity as she tore ahead. What fresh tragedy was impending? To her dismay she saw Millicent was gaining ground. What use to call—no one was near—and she needed every ounce of breath to overtake the flying figure. Millicent kept a fairly straight course, then, darting among a clump of laurel bushes, disappeared from view, but only for a moment, as Vera, circling the bushes, caught sight of her cutting across fields toward Thornedale, but instead of continuing her approach to the low, rambling hunting lodge, she doubled on her tracks and half slid down a steep embankment.

  Vera, hampered by her unfamiliarity with the ground, was some minutes later in reaching the top of the embankment, and she halted abruptly on seeing Millicent, no sign of her recent haste discernible, seated at the bottom of the embankment, apparently resting at her ease. Shifting clouds temporarily obscured the moon, and Vera waited expectantly before attempting the descent, dropping to her knees behind a cluster of shrubs as she decided to call and ask Millicent to wait for her. But her intentions received a check as a figure turned the corner of the winding highway, and a voice addressed Millicent.

  “Who is here?” The next instant an electric pocket torch played across her face, then flickered out as Hugh Wyndham exclaimed in deep astonishment, “Millicent!”

  His cousin threw out her hand as if to ward off the censure she felt coming.

  “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.

  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?

  Chapter XVI

  Hare and Hounds

  Wyndham, taking no precautions to walk lightly, tramped down the hall oblivious of the bright sunshine which streamed through the windows, whistling dismally below his breath. As he came abreast of his cousin’s bedroom the door, which stood partly ajar, was opened fully and Mrs. Hall stepped into the corridor, a finger to her lip. Wyndham halted abruptly.

  “Is anything the matter?” he questioned, alarmed by her manner.

  “Miss Porter has been given a sedative,” she said, closing the bedroom door softly. “The slightest noise—your whistling—”

  “Oh, I beg pardon,” in deep contrition. “I was not aware—is she seriously ill?”

  “A trifle feverish.” Mrs. Hall glanced at him doubtfully, looked away, then bowed and laid her hand on the knob of the bedroom door, but Wyndham, quick to catch her expression, checked her by an imperative gesture.

  “You wish to ask me something?”

  All hesitancy vanished as Mrs. Hall met his steadfast regard and came unconsciously under the influence of his friendly smile. “Your cousin,” she began, “your cousin in her delirium begged me to find out if she had hidden them safely.”

  Wyndham stared at her. “Hidden what?”

  “She never said, but repeated over and over that she wished me to go and see if she had hidden them safely.” Mrs. Hall moved nearer, and lowered her voice. “I trust Miss Porter will be normal when she wakens. I had to use physical strength to prevent her from going out to see ‘if she had hidden them safely.’”

  Wyndham failed to catch her furtive glance as he stood considering her words. He roused himself with an effort. “I have no idea to what my cousin alludes,” he said, and his glance sharpened. “How is your other patient this morning?”

  “Mr. Porter is about the same.” Mrs. Hall grew grave. “Dr. Noyes is with him until Miss Deane awakens from her nap. She has volunteered to do double duty.”

  “I see; let me know if I can be of assistance in taking care of Craig,” said Wyndham, and, bowing, he went downstairs.

  Mrs. Hall did not at once re-enter Millicent’s bedroom, but when she did her expression was not pleasant.

  Wyndham was not noted for patience at any time, and when he strode into the dining-room his manner showed his frame of mind. He had a vanishing view of the butler, Selby, carrying a tray upstairs, but Murray’s non-appearance after he had repeatedly rung the bell added to his irritation. Jerking back his chair he pushed open the swing door.

  “Murray!” he roared, and his voice carried through the pantry and into the kitchen beyond.

  “Coming, sir, coming,” and the footman followed his words with such precipitancy that he almost collided with Wyndham. “Beg pardon, sir, for keeping you waiting, but cook felt fainty-like, and I was just helpin’ the maids give her some pneumonia.”

  “Too bad!” Wyndham, concealing a smile, resumed his seat. “I hope she feels better.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you. Your breakfast is being kept warm for you; shall I bring it in?”

  A nod sufficed in an
swer 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 resume. 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?”