Get the full ebook with Bonus Features for a Better Reading Experience on ebookmeta.

com

Safeguarding Physician Wellbeing: Using Checklists

for Personal, Professional, and Psychological
Safety 1st Edition Julie L. Wei

https://ebookmeta.com/product/safeguarding-physician-
wellbeing-using-checklists-for-personal-professional-and-
psychological-safety-1st-edition-julie-l-wei/

OR CLICK HERE

DOWLOAD NOW

Download more ebook instantly today at https://ebookmeta.com

 Recommended digital products (PDF, EPUB, MOBI) that
you can download immediately if you are interested.

Cambridge IGCSE and O Level History Workbook 2C - Depth

Study: the United States, 1919-41 2nd Edition Benjamin
Harrison
https://ebookmeta.com/product/cambridge-igcse-and-o-level-history-
workbook-2c-depth-study-the-united-states-1919-41-2nd-edition-
benjamin-harrison/
ebookmeta.com

Safety Metrics for the Modern Safety Professional 1st

Edition C. Gary Lopez

https://ebookmeta.com/product/safety-metrics-for-the-modern-safety-
professional-1st-edition-c-gary-lopez/

ebookmeta.com

Tourist Health Safety and Wellbeing in the New Normal

https://ebookmeta.com/product/tourist-health-safety-and-wellbeing-in-
the-new-normal/

ebookmeta.com

Respiratory Care Assessment and Management 2nd Edition

Deborah Duncan

https://ebookmeta.com/product/respiratory-care-assessment-and-
management-2nd-edition-deborah-duncan/

ebookmeta.com
Separation Anxiety in Adulthood How to Address it in
Clinical Practice 1st Edition Stefano Pini Barbara Milrod

https://ebookmeta.com/product/separation-anxiety-in-adulthood-how-to-
address-it-in-clinical-practice-1st-edition-stefano-pini-barbara-
milrod/
ebookmeta.com

Studies in the Horror Film Tobe Hooper s Salem s Lot 1st

Edition Tony Earnshaw

https://ebookmeta.com/product/studies-in-the-horror-film-tobe-hooper-
s-salem-s-lot-1st-edition-tony-earnshaw/

ebookmeta.com

Tress of the Emerald Sea Brandon Sanderson

https://ebookmeta.com/product/tress-of-the-emerald-sea-brandon-
sanderson/

ebookmeta.com

Nurturing Habits of Mind in Early Childhood Success

Stories from Classrooms Around the World 1st Edition
Arthur L. Costa
https://ebookmeta.com/product/nurturing-habits-of-mind-in-early-
childhood-success-stories-from-classrooms-around-the-world-1st-
edition-arthur-l-costa/
ebookmeta.com

Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions Stravinsky and the

Russian Traditions Volume One A Biography of the Works
through Mavra
https://ebookmeta.com/product/stravinsky-and-the-russian-traditions-
stravinsky-and-the-russian-traditions-volume-one-a-biography-of-the-
works-through-mavra/
ebookmeta.com
Quantum Mechanics: A Mathematical Introduction. Instructor
Solutions Manual 1st Edition Andrew J. Larkoski

https://ebookmeta.com/product/quantum-mechanics-a-mathematical-
introduction-instructor-solutions-manual-1st-edition-andrew-j-
larkoski/
ebookmeta.com
“Dr. Wei masterfully confronts the overlooked crisis of physician burnout with
a practical approach for reclaiming wellbeing. This is more than a book, it’s a
movement that transforms a daunting and complex challenge into actionable
steps ensuring the wellbeing of healthcare’s most vital resource: its physicians.”
– Kari Granger, CEO of The Granger Network, Executive Advisory

“This book is long overdue and no one is better qualified to write it than Julie. As
an exemplar physician and surgeon, she hits the mark with brilliance.”
– Jim Loehr, EdD, Renowned Performance Psychologist and Co-Founder of the
Human Performance Institute

“Dr. Julie Wei is a champion. Her commitment to the wellbeing of others knows
no bounds. This is the ultimate playbook for physicians and those in training to
‘win’ and achieve incredible wellbeing in their life and careers.”
– Lou Holtz, Legendary Hall of Fame football coach, motivational speaker,
author, TV analyst, and philanthropist

“Dr. Julie Wei is an important and brilliant and compassionate physician voice.
We encourage everyone to read this book.”
– Scott Becker, Becker’s Healthcare

“Are you one of the many physicians I know who are annoyed by admonitions
from others to become more resilient? Truth be told, the physicians I know are
already the most resilient professionals I know! If you are committed to your own
well-being (as are most resilient persons), then this book is for you. Checklists
used in clinical practice have been systematically developed based on best evidence
and consensus. They are familiar tools in clinical practice. Dr. Wei developed this
approach to offer physicians standardized and achievable solutions in a set of
checklists designed to mitigate physician burnout and increase physician
wellbeing. If you are a medical student, resident, or fellow, these checklists will be
invaluable as you launch your career as a physician. Dr. Wei shares many of her
own experiences that bring to life the need for a more systematic approach for
fostering personal, professional, and psychological safety.”
– R. Kevin Grigsby, Co-author: Grigsby RK, Mallon WT. Thriving: New Perspectives
and Approaches for Personal and Organizational Success. AAMC Successful Medical
School Department Chairs Series. Washington, DC: AAMC, 2020.
“Dr. Wei has provided us with practical and meaningful strategies to approach
these important issues. This book itself warrants its own place on a very important
checklist!”
– Jennifer Shin, MD, SM, Department of Otolaryngology-Head and Neck Surgery,
Department of Surgery, Office for Faculty Affairs, Harvard Medical School

“This is a must-read for all physicians in today’s environment of production pres-

sure, burnout, and disengagement. Dr. Wei’s journey is a familiar one for all of us
and her heartfelt advice and her willingness to be vulnerable and share her per-
sonal battles is truly touching and valuable.”
– Butch Uejima, MD, MMM, FAAP, CPHRM, VP, Chief Medical Officer &
Chair Dept of Pediatric Anesthesiology & Perioperative Medicine, Nemours
Children’s Health, Delaware Valley
 Safeguarding Physician Wellbeing

The United States is facing a worsening epidemic of physician burnout with

unprecedented numbers of them leaving the workforce and practice of clinical
medicine across all career stages. The prevalence of physician burnout has acceler-
ated through COVID-19, resulting in an anticipated serious national shortage
of physicians within the current decade amidst an increased proportion of aging
and unhealthy population.
The critical shortage of physicians coupled with an unhealthy physician
workforce results in longer wait times for access, continued increased healthcare
costs, decreased quality of care, and worsening patient experience.
Despite increasing media coverage, published data, and identification of
system-based factors that erode physician wellbeing, no standardized systematic
solution has been implemented across hospitals, health systems, or a variety
of employment models or practice settings for any or all doctors regardless of
whether they are primary care, medical, or surgical subspecialists.
Effective solutions to mitigate physician burnout, protect current working
physicians, and keep them from leaving medicine require a SHIFT and a more
individualized approach. Many proposed academic models address system-
based factors, but such solutions depend greatly on those who employ doctors.
Executive leadership in charge of healthcare systems are often challenged by phy-
sician burnout and their desired autonomy, against the need for standardiza-
tion of care delivery to improve quality and decrease cost. Physician productivity
measures continue to be based on data samples of physician compensation sur-
veys supplied by companies like Sullivan Cotter or Medical Group Management
Association (MGMA). Such benchmarks are commonly used but data may not
reflect specific realities for any organizations nor the rapid changes in the land-
scape of US healthcare amidst mergers, acquisitions, consolidation, and shifts in
employment models from insurance and online retail giants and private equity.
This book uses a “checklist” approach to empower any medical student,
resident, fellow, or practicing physician to create and experience psychological,
personal, and professional safety and wellbeing. Not only can individual physi-
cians choose and use these checklists themselves, but those who live with, love,
and cherish one or more physicians in their families and/or lives can use this book
to understand physician realities and their risks.
 Safeguarding
Physician Wellbeing
Using Checklists for Personal,
Professional, and Psychological Safety

Julie L. Wei, MD, MMM, FAAP

First published 2024
by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158
and by Routledge
4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2024 Julie L. Wei
The right of Julie L. Wei to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form
or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, includ-
ing photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks,
and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
ISBN: 978-1-032-58990-9 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-58989-3 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-45247-8 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9781003452478
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)
 To Dave
You sacrificed personally and professionally beyond measure, while I struggled and
didn’t know how to help myself. I am here today because you have been my harbor,
shelter, pillar of strength, and light, during utter darkness. Our family and Claire
fueled my ability to care for and give to others. May I always be a source of love, joy,
laughter, and safety for you.
To Claire
Your smiles, voice, laughter, sarcasm, and jokes always made me feel better no
matter how long or hard my days were caring for others. Your hugs are like oxygen.
You made me a better doctor, surgeon, and adult, from the moment you came into
the world. Thank you for the gift of motherhood. May I show you with my life and
actions, the joy of serving and helping others. I wish you a chance to be a doctor if
you choose, and to have great doctors who are WELL when you need them.
To My Parents
Thank you for your sacrifices, hard work, financial support, and love. Because of
you, I was able to achieve the best educational journey and have the most incredible
life so far. You taught me work ethic like no other and taught yourselves how to nav-
igate the complex US Health System and stayed as healthy as possible. You showed
me how to be resourceful and resilient, from the day we arrived in this country. You
broadened my perspective on what matters the most to patients.
To Nancy
You are the best sister and best friend, constant companion, and my emotional sup-
port human since you were born. Despite our 11-year age difference, I have been
blessed because you have provided psychological safety for me throughout my life. You
listen with empathy and compassion, your intellect challenged my perspectives, and
you validate my emotions. Thank you for supporting me through all my life events,
best and worst.
To Herdley
Thank you for your incredible career focused entirely on supporting physicians and
their wellbeing. You are always the light and safe shelter during the darkness, for me
and countless physicians, surgeons, and trainees. By giving permission and teaching
physicians how to process pain and suffering, you show each to be a light that can
shine brightly again. Thank you for validating the pain and suffering physicians
endure and healing them so they may heal others. Your impact to physicians and
their loved ones/families is immeasurable. I am forever grateful for our shared jour-
ney, where every starfish that is out of the safe ocean, are picked up with compassion,
love, then returned to safety.
Contents

Author Bio.................................................................................................. xi
Foreword................................................................................................... xiii
Preface........................................................................................................xv
Introduction....................................................................................... 1
1 My Journey......................................................................................... 5
2 Physician Safety................................................................................ 11
3 Data on Physician Burnout and WHY.............................................. 16
4 Professional Protection Checklist..................................................... 24
5 Coaching for Physicians (by Physician and by Non-Physician
Coaches)........................................................................................... 44
6 Personal Checklist............................................................................. 56
7 Financial Checklist........................................................................... 65
8 Physical and Mental Health Checklist.............................................. 71
9 Relationship Checklist...................................................................... 80
10 Checklist for Career Longevity.......................................................... 84
11 Checklists for Ergonomics, Disability, and Recovery........................ 89
12 Delaying Pregnancy, Miscarriage, and Infertility.............................. 95
13 How to “Off-Ramp”, “On-Ramp”, or Exit Your Clinical
Career – Safely................................................................................ 102

ix
x ◾ Contents

14 What Hospitals, Health Systems, Academic Institutions Can and

Should Do to Ensure Healthy Physician Workforce........................ 111
15 Checklist for Optimal Future of US Healthcare.............................. 119
Conclusion.............................................................................................. 122
Bibliography............................................................................................ 125
Index������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 129
Author Bio

Julie L. Wei, MD, MMM, FAAP, is a Pediatric

Otolaryngologist and new Division Director, the
Dr. Alfred J. Magoline Chair of Otolaryngology, at
Akron Children’s Hospital in Akron Ohio. She is also
a Professor of Otolaryngology Head Neck Surgery at
University of Cincinnati College of Medicine and
faculty in the ENT Division at Cincinnati Children’s
Hospital Medical Center.
Dr. Wei obtained her medical degree from New
York Medical College, followed by ENT residency
training at Mayo Clinic Rochester. She completed 2 years of fellowship train-
ing at the now Lurie Children’s Hospital in Chicago. In May 2023, she com-
pleted a master’s in medical management from Carnegie Mellon University’s
Heinz College of Information Systems and Public Policy. Dr. Wei has served
in many leadership roles including Surgeon-­in-­Chief, Director, GME Wellbeing
Initiative, Chair of Medical Staff Health and Wellness Committee at Nemours
Children’s Hospital Orlando, and as Chair of Otolaryngology Education and
Advisor for Association of Women Surgeons at University of Central Florida
College of Medicine for the past near decade. She is the immediate past president
of American Society of Pediatric Otolaryngology and past president of Society of
Ear, Nose, Throat Advances for Children.
In 2019, Dr. Wei developed intermittent right shoulder pain for which she
underwent injections. By April of 2021 during pandemic onset, she developed a
frozen shoulder in middle of endoscopic surgery. This resulted in a decompres-
sion surgery after which she never thought she would struggle with losing nearly
all range of motion despite physical therapy. Six months later, cervical radiculop-
athy symptoms on the same side developed from 4-­level degenerative discs with
compression of C5-­C6. Severe shoulder and neck pain and constant paresthesia
of the right hand resulted in an unfathomable decision to take first short-, then

xi
xii ◾ Author Bio

long-­term medical leave. In February 2022, she made the difficult decision to
take a “PAUSE” in clinical and surgical practice to pursue total healing without
surgical intervention, while living with uncertainty about her career in surgery.
During her time away from practice, Dr. Wei devoted unprecedented time to
her body, undergoing scheduled chiropractic care, cervical and lumbar decom-
pression therapy, physiotherapy/massages, and routine work out with strength
training to reverse the completely atrophic right rotator cuff muscles due to fro-
zen shoulder. Grieving and processing the trauma associated with her disability
also fueled her passion to increase awareness in surgeons on surgical ergonomics,
WRMSD, and permission to seek help through writing and speaking on her
journey from injury to recovery. At the ASPO annual meeting in May 2023,
Dr. Wei moderated a panel on surgical ergonomics to highlight prevalence in her
subspecialty, risk factors, and preventive measures. Dr. Wei has spent 2 decades
helping children and families avoid unnecessary medications and surgical pro-
cedures through nutrition and health literacy and eliminating ENT symptoms
through healthier dietary habits. She has also been a champion of supporting
mental health for surgeons, by addressing the stigma and lack of support for
surgeons who invariably experience PTSD.
Dr. Wei has authored two books on how dietary habits in children can cause
acid reflux, ENT symptoms, and subsequent misdiagnosis and over treatment
with use of medications. She is a TEDx speaker and her talk, “The Hidden
Dangers of the Milk and Cookie Disease” has been viewed over 408,000 times
since 2015. Dr. Wei has created online courses on her website on treating ENT
symptoms through dietary modification. She has published over 49 peer-­reviewed
articles, 13 invited articles, and 12 book chapters.
Foreword

I first met Julie when she was a student in the Master of Medical Management
program at Carnegie Mellon University. I previously had been a student there
and credit the program to opening my eyes to possibilities I had never consid-
ered. Because of the tremendous impact the program had on my own career,
I have been teaching there ever since. Julie and I had many conversations about
the impact of burnout on physicians and her assignments were always incredibly
insightful. Several years have passed since then and the importance of physician
wellness couldn’t be more important to physicians and society in general. I was
excited to review this book because of the critical nature of addressing physician
well-­being and its use of the checklist approach. As a pediatric critical care doctor
for almost 30 years, I remember the introduction of checklists into standard use
and the reluctance many of us had in using them. As Julie mentions, to-­do lists
were used by all the pediatric residents I trained with, and we felt like we never
got to the end of the list. The use of checklists is quite different as they are specific
to a task and ensure accurate and timely completion of that task. They are now
in routine use throughout healthcare and have been written about including the
well-­known The Checklist Manifesto by Atul Gawande.
Before reading this book, I wouldn’t have thought of using checklists to help
with physician well-­being, much less writing a book on the topic. As I read the
first few chapters, I got more excited about the approach. I am an avid reader and
run a monthly book club at my own organization (Cincinnati Children’s). At the
end of many of the books, some will comment “that was interesting, but there
were very few actionable steps to take that the book provided.” That couldn’t be
further from the truth with this book. Each chapter has actionable, easy-­to-­use
checklists that are specific, action-­oriented, and can easily be finished. Some are
general and applicable to many professionals and others are more specifically
oriented to physicians. As I read the chapter on financial checklists, it was like a
highlight reel of many of the financial mistakes I made coming out of training.
It is even more critical that physicians entering residency training take steps to
protect their financial well-­being. According to the Medscape Physician Wealth

xiii
xiv ◾ Foreword

and Debt report in 2023, the average graduating medical student has a com-
bined debt of 251,000 dollars. Most then train for a minimum of three years at
lower wages and many train at least twice that long. Every medical student in the
United States would likely benefit from the succinct financial advice provided
within.
One other area worth addressing is the approach of having a specific physician
wellness program. Burnout is ever in the healthcare setting, was exacerbated by
the pandemic, and is an issue for almost all who work in this environment. Many
organizations now have employee wellness programs that target all employees
with varying degrees of success. Others have specific physician programs, and
now some are providing unique programs for physicians with a different program
for others. Certainly, any effort to improve the well-­being of those working in
the complex and ever-­changing healthcare environment is worthy. I believe this
book makes a good case for the importance of an approach that is tied to the
unique pressures facing physicians today. The checklist approach will feel familiar
to today’s physicians, be actionable, and can be used as a reference at different
times both as a whole and individual chapters.

Steve Davis MD, MMM, MS

President and CEO, Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center
Other documents randomly have
different content
“His morbid tendencies, his—” She stopped abruptly. “He must have
been suffering from mental aberration.”
“All suicides are temporarily insane,” agreed Mitchell. “Otherwise
they would not kill themselves; but, Mrs. Porter, in Brainard’s case
the medical evidence went to prove that the wound in his throat
could not have been self-inflicted.”
“Fiddle-de-dee! I don’t place any reliance on that deputy coroner’s
testimony.” Mrs. Porter indulged in a most undignified sniff. “Was Dr.
Beverly Thorne present at the autopsy?”
“No.” Mitchell moved nearer the center table. Mrs. Porter’s altered
manner at the mention of Beverly Thorne’s name had not escaped
the detective’s attention. Apparently Mrs. Porter was far from loving
her neighbor like herself. The family feud, whatever it was about
originally, would not be permitted to die out in her day and
generation. Mitchell dropped his voice to a confidential pitch: “Come,
Mrs. Porter, if you will tell me what you have in mind—” Mrs. Porter’s
frigid smile stopped him.
“I can hardly do that and remain impersonal—and polite,” she
remarked, and Dorothy, watching them both, smothered a keen
desire to laugh. “It is my unalterable opinion that Bruce Brainard, in
a fit of temporary insanity, killed himself,” added Mrs. Porter.
“Ah, indeed! And where did he procure the razor?”
“That is for you to find out.” Mrs. Porter rose. “Do that and you will
—”
“Identify the murderer,” substituted Mitchell, with a provoking smile;
in the heat of argument she might let slip whatever she hoped to
conceal.
“No, prove my theory correct,” Mrs. Porter retorted, rising and
walking toward the door. She desired the interview closed. “Have
you the key to Mr. Brainard’s bedroom?”
“Yes, Mrs. Porter.”
“Then kindly return it to me.” And she extended her hand. “The
room must be cleaned and put in order.”
“Not yet,” retorted Mitchell. “It was to prevent anything being
touched in the room that I locked the door. After the mystery is
solved, Mrs. Porter, I shall be most happy to return the key.”
Mrs. Porter elevated her eyebrows as she looked at Dorothy and
murmured in an audible aside, “Clothed in a little brief authority;”
then, addressing Mitchell, who was following them to the door, “Mr.
Mitchell, in the absence of my nephew, Mr. Wyndham, I must remind
you that I cannot permit you or your assistants to intrude upon the
privacy of my family.”
“Except in the line of duty, madam.” Mitchell’s tone matched hers.
“This case must be thoroughly investigated, no matter who is
involved. Miss Deane, kindly inform your sister that I must see her at
the earliest possible moment.”
“She will see you when she is disengaged, and not before,” retorted
Mrs. Porter, wrath getting the better of her judgment, and laying an
imperious hand on Dorothy’s arm she conducted her from the room.
Mitchell turned back and paced up and down the library for over five
minutes, then paused in front of the telephone stand. “So the old
lady is hostile,” he muttered, turning the leaves of the telephone
directory. “And Pope isn’t back yet—” He ran his finger down the list
of names and at last found the one he sought. Hitching the
telephone nearer he repeated a number into the mouthpiece, and a
second later was talking with Beverly Thorne.
“What, doctor, you don’t wish to come here again!” ejaculated the
detective, as Thorne refused his first request. “Now, don’t let that
fool feud interfere with your helping me, doctor. I assure you you
can be of the greatest assistance, and as justice of the peace I think
there is no other course open to you. Yes, I want you right away—
you’ll come? I shan’t forget it, doctor. I’ll meet you at the door.” And
with a satisfied smile the detective hung up the receiver and went in
search of Murray.
Mitchell, twenty minutes later, stood twirling his thumbs in the front
hall; his growing impatience was finally rewarded by the ringing of
the front bell, and before the butler could get down the hall he had
opened the door and was welcoming Thorne.
“We’ll go upstairs, doctor,” said Mitchell, after Thorne had
surrendered his hat and overcoat to Selby, and stood waiting the
detective’s pleasure. “Selby, ask Miss Vera Deane to join us at once
—”
“I am here,” cut in a voice from the stair landing, and Vera stepped
into view. Her eyes traveled past the detective and rested on Beverly
Thorne with an intentness which held his own gaze. Totally oblivious
of Mitchell and the butler they continued to stare at each other.
Suddenly the carmine crept up Vera’s white cheeks, and she turned
to Mitchell, almost with an air of relief. “What is it you wish?”
“A few minutes’ chat with you,” answered the detective, mounting
the stairs. “Suppose we go into Mr. Brainard’s bedroom. Will you lead
the way?” waiting courteously on the landing, but there was an
appreciable pause before Vera complied with his request, and it was
a silent procession of three which the butler saw disappear upstairs.
Mitchell was the first to speak as they gathered about the bedroom
door. “Nice dainty little watch charm to carry about with me,” he
said, holding up a massive brass key which measured at least six
inches in length, with a ward in proportion. “Did you lock Mr.
Brainard’s door, Miss Deane, on Monday night when you returned to
your other patient?”
“No, I left the door unlocked, but closed.” Vera spoke with an effort.
“As you see, Mr. Mitchell, the old lock turns with difficulty, and I
feared the noise it makes”—a protesting squeak from the interior of
the lock as Mitchell turned the key illustrated her meaning—“would
disturb Mr. Brainard.”
“It needs oiling, that’s a fact.” Mitchell flung open the unlocked door.
“Come right in,” he said, and stalked ahead of them.
Vera paused on the threshold and half turned as if to go back, but
Thorne’s figure blocked the doorway. Slowly, with marked reluctance,
she advanced into the bedroom, and at a sign from Mitchell, who
was watching her every movement, Thorne closed the door, his
expression inscrutable.
“Look about, Miss Deane,” directed Mitchell, sitting down and
drawing out his notebook. “I want you to study each article in the
room and tell us if it is just where it stood at the time you discovered
Brainard had been murdered. Sit down, if you wish,” indicating a
chair near him.
“Thanks, I prefer to stand.” Vera eyed the two men, then did as she
was bidden, but as she looked about the bedroom she was
considering the motive underlying the detective’s request. What did
he hope to learn from her? How dared he make her a stalking horse,
and in the presence of Beverly Thorne! The thought bred hot
resentment, but the red blood flaming her cheeks receded as quickly
as it had come at sight of a figure stretched out in the bed under the
blood-stained sheets and blankets. A slight scream escaped her and
she recoiled.
“It is only a dummy,” explained Mitchell hastily, laying a soothing
hand on her arm. She shrank from his touch.
“I realize it now,” said Vera, moistening her dry lips with the tip of
her tongue. “I had not expected to find it there.”
“Do you see any changes in the room, Miss Deane?” asked Mitchell,
as she lapsed into silence.
Vera, who had been gazing at the figure in the bed as if hypnotized,
turned mechanically about and inspected the bedroom. The window
curtains had been drawn back and the shades raised, and the room
was flooded with light. Catching a glimpse of herself in the huge
antique mirror above the mantelpiece as she turned her back to the
bed, Vera was startled to see how white and drawn her reflection
appeared in its clear depths, and surreptitiously rubbed her cheeks
to restore their color.
“I see nothing changed on the mantel,” she said, and the sound of
her calm voice reassured her; she had not lost her grip, no matter
what the mirror told her. “But”—she wrinkled her brow in thought as
her eyes fell on a chair on which were flung a suit of clothes and
some underclothing—“Mr. Brainard’s dress suit was laid neatly on the
sofa over there, and his underclothes there also.”
“Did you place them there?” asked Mitchell, jotting down her
remarks.
“No, they were there when I came into the bedroom Monday night.”
“Did they appear mussed or rumpled the next morning, Miss Deane,
as if Brainard had risen in the night and searched the pockets?”
inquired Thorne, breaking his long silence. He had followed the
detective’s questions and Vera’s replies with the closest attention,
while his eyes never left her. It seemed almost as if he could not
look elsewhere, and but for Vera’s absorption she could not have
failed to note his intent regard.
Vera hesitated before answering his question. “I think the clothes
had not been touched,” she said. “My impression is that they lay
exactly where Mr. Brainard placed them before retiring.”
“Do you think Mr. Brainard, a sick man, placed the clothes on the
sofa, and not Wyndham or Noyes?”
“You must get that information from either of those men,” replied
Vera wearily. “I was not present when Mr. Brainard was put to bed.”
“But you can inform us, Miss Deane, if Dr. Noyes ordered an opiate
administered to Brainard,” broke in Mitchell, and Thorne looked
sharply at him. What was he driving at?
“No, Dr. Noyes did not order an opiate.” Vera moved restlessly. “I
gave Mr. Brainard a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia as directed,
and that was all.”
Mitchell rose and stepped into the center of the bedroom and
pointed to the transom. It was an oblong opening in the thick wall,
forming the top, apparently, of what had formerly been a door jamb;
the communicating doorway, judging from appearances, having been
bricked up years before. The glass partition of the transom, secured
at the bottom to the woodwork by hinges, hung down into the
bedroom occupied by Craig Porter from chains fastened to the upper
woodwork of the transom, and was barely visible from where Vera
and Thorne stood in Brainard’s bedroom. The glass partition, when
closed, was held in place by a catch lock at the top.
“Look at that, Miss Deane,” exclaimed Mitchell harshly. “The transom
is almost entirely open. Do you still maintain that you heard no
sound during the night in this bedroom?”
“I heard no sound which indicated murder was being committed in
this room,” Vera protested vehemently. “I tell you I heard nothing,”
observing Mitchell’s air of skepticism. “To prove to you that all sound
does not carry into the next bedroom, one of you go in there, and I
will steal from the hall into this room and over to the bed, and the
one who remains can tell what takes place in this room.”
“A good idea.” Mitchell walked briskly toward the door. “You watch,
doctor,” and he stood aside for Vera to step past him into the hall,
then followed her outside and closed the door securely behind him.
Barely waiting for their departure, Thorne moved over to the chair
on which lay Brainard’s clothes, and hurriedly searched the few
pockets of the dress suit, only to find them empty. Evidently the
police had taken charge of whatever had been in them. He was just
turning away when the door opened without a sound and Vera, her
white linen skirt slightly drawn up, slipped into the room and with
stealthy tread crept toward the bed.
Thorne watched her, fascinated by her unconscious grace and her air
of grim determination. He instinctively realized that the test she had
suggested was repugnant to her high-strung, sensitive nature, and
only his strong will conquered his intense desire to end the scene. As
close as he was to her he heard no sound; but for the evidence of
his eyes he could have sworn that he was alone in the room. He saw
her turn to approach the head of the bed, falter, and draw back, and
was by her side instantly. She looked at him half dazed, and but for
his steadying hand would have measured her length on the ground.
He read the agony in her eyes and responded to the unconscious
appeal.
“Come back, Mitchell,” he called, and while he pitched his voice as
low as possible its carrying qualities reached the detective in Craig
Porter’s bedroom, and he hurried into the next room in time to see
Thorne offer Vera his silver flask.
“No, I don’t need it,” she insisted, pushing his hand away. “It was
but a momentary weakness. I have had very little sleep for the past
forty-eight hours, and am unstrung. If you have no further questions
to ask me, Mr. Mitchell, I will return to my room.”
Before replying Mitchell looked at Thorne. “Did she do as she said
she would?” he asked. “I heard nothing in the next room until you
called me.”
“Yes. Frankly, had I not seen Miss Deane open the door and enter
this room I would have thought myself alone,” responded Thorne.
“The carpet is thick.” Mitchell leaned down and passed his hand over
it. “It would deaden any sound of footsteps. You are sure that you
heard no talking in here Monday night, Miss Deane?”
“I have already said that I did not,” retorted Vera, and she made no
attempt to keep the bitterness she was feeling out of her voice. “It
seems very hard to convince you, Mr. Mitchell, that I am not a liar.”
Thorne, who had been staring at the bed-table, looked up quickly.
“Did you see a razor lying on this table when you arranged the night
light for Brainard, Miss Deane?” he asked.
“No.” Vera sighed; would they never cease questioning her? “That
brass bell, the glass night light, empty medicine glass, and water
caraffe were the only articles on the table.”
Mitchell went over to the foot of the bed. “Just whereabouts on the
bed did you see the razor yesterday morning?” he asked.
Vera, who stood with her back almost touching the bed, turned
reluctantly around. It was a high four-post bedstead and required a
short flight of steps to mount into it, but some vandal had shortened
the four beautifully carved posts to half their height and the canopy
had also been removed.
The figure lay huddled face down, for which Vera was deeply
grateful. Even in its dark hair she visualized the tortured features of
Bruce Brainard, and she turned with a shudder to point to a spot on
the bed just below the sleeve of the pyjamas which clothed the
figure.
“The razor lay there,” she announced positively.
“Thanks.” Mitchell closed and pocketed his notebook. “Now, one
more question, Miss Deane, and then we will let you off. At what
time yesterday morning did you go to summon Dr. Noyes?”
“To be exact, at twenty minutes of six.”
“And what hour was it when you first discovered the murder?”
Vera stared at him dazedly, then her trembling hand clutched the
bedclothes for support, but as her fingers closed over the sleeve of
the pyjamas they encountered bone and muscle. With senses reeling
she half collapsed in Thorne’s arms as the figure rolled over and
disclosed Murray’s agitated countenance.
“H-he m-made m-me do it, miss,” the footman stuttered, pointing an
accusing finger at Mitchell. “Said he wanted to play a trick on Dr.
Thorne; but if I’d dreamed he wanted to scare you, miss, I’d never
have agreed, never. And I’ve been lying here in agony, miss, afraid
to speak because I might scare you to death, and hoping you’d leave
the room without knowing about me. If Mrs. Porter ever hears!”
Murray gazed despairingly at them. “She wouldn’t have minded me
making a fool of Dr. Thorne. Oh, Miss Deane, don’t look at me like
that!” and his voice shook with feeling.
“It’s all right,” gasped Vera, standing shakily erect; Murray’s jumbled
explanation had given her time to recover her poise. She turned to
Detective Mitchell, her eyes blazing with indignation. “The farce is
ended, sir, and my answer to your last question is the same—I found
Mr. Brainard lying here with his throat cut at twenty minutes of six.
Good afternoon.” And she left the three men contemplating each
other.
 CHAPTER IX
IN THE ATTIC

THE high wind sweeping around the Porter mansion in ever

increasing volume found an echo under the eaves, and the attic in
consequence resounded with dismal noises. Much of the space
under the sloping roof had been given up to the storage of trunks
and old furniture, but on the side facing the Potomac River wooden
partitions divided that part of the attic into rooms for servants.
The south wall of the attic was lined with pine book shelves which
ran up to the wooden rafters. There old Judge Erastus Porter had
stored his extensive law library, and there his great-niece, little
Millicent Porter, had made her playhouse when she visited him. The
nook used in childhood had retained its affection in Millicent’s
maturer years and, the trunks forming an effectual barricade, she
had converted it into a cozy corner, placed pretty curtains in the
dormer window, a rug on the bare boards, wheeled an easy-chair, a
highboy, and a flat-top desk into their respective places, and, last
but not least, a large barrel stood near at hand filled with out-of-
print books and a paper edition of Scott’s novels. Mrs. Porter on her
first tour of inspection of the attic had remonstrated against the
barrel, stating that it spoiled the really handsome pieces of furniture
which Millicent had converted to her own use, but her daughter
insisted that the barrel added a touch of picturesqueness, and that
she still enjoyed munching an apple and reading “Ivanhoe,” a
statement that drew the strictured comment from Mrs. Porter that
Millicent had inherited all her father’s peculiarities, after which she
was left in peace and possession.
Bundled up in a sweater, Millicent sat cross-legged before a small
brass-bound, hair-covered trunk, another companion of her
childhood, for she had first learned to print by copying the initials of
her great-great-grandfather outlined in brass tacks on the trunk lid.
The trunk still held a number of childish treasures, as well as cotillion
favors, invitations, photographs, and a bundle of manuscripts. But
contrary to custom, Millicent made no attempt to look at the neatly
typewritten sheets; instead she sat contemplating the open trunk,
her head cocked on one side as if listening.
Finally convinced that all she heard was the moaning of the wind
under the eaves, she lifted out the tray, and, pushing aside some
silks and laces, removed the false bottom of the trunk and took from
it a ledger. Propping the book against the side of the trunk she
turned its pages until she came to an entry which made her pause:
Dined with Mrs. Seymour. Bruce Brainard took me out to
dinner. He was very agreeable.
And apparently from the frequency with which his name appeared in
her “memory book,” Bruce Brainard continued to be “agreeable.”
Millicent turned page after page, and for the first time read between
the lines of her stylish penmanship what her mother, with the far-
sighted eyes of experience, had interpreted plainly. Flattered by the
attentions of a polished man of the world, years older than herself,
Millicent had mistaken admiration for interest and liking for love.
Brainard’s courtship of the debutante had been ardent, and what she
termed an engagement and her mother “an understanding” had
followed. Brainard had pleaded for an early wedding, but business
had called him away to Brazil, and on Millicent’s advice, who knew
her mother’s whims and fancies, he had postponed asking Mrs.
Porter’s consent to their engagement until his return.
Millicent read on and on in her ledger; accounts of parties gave
place to comments about her brother, Craig, then he absorbed the
entire space allotted to each day, and the progress of his trip home
was duly recorded, and the items:
October 5th—Thank God, Craig is home again, but, oh,
what a wreck! It’s agony to see him lying in bed unable to
move hand or foot, unable to speak, unable to recognize
 us. But he’s home, not lying in an unknown grave
somewhere in Europe. I’ve just met Dr. Alan Noyes, who
accompanied Craig to this country, and to whose skill
Craig owes his slender hold on life. The doctor is painfully
shy.
October 7th—Saw more of Dr. Noyes today; he improves
on acquaintance. Mother says he is not shy, only reticent.
Millicent did not linger over the next few entries, but paused and
scanned the words:
October 15th—Vera Deane has replaced the night nurse
for Craig. She reminds me so of Dorothy, yet they are not
a bit alike. Persuaded Dr. Noyes to talk about his
experiences in the field hospitals abroad. Must write Bruce
tonight without fail.
Millicent skipped several pages, then came the entry:
December 15th—I had no idea Alan Noyes had such a
temper; we quarreled most awfully. He announced his
creed is never to forget a friend and never to forgive an
enemy. Well, I can be stubborn, too.
Millicent sighed drearily and jumped to the date:
December 24th—Alan Noyes has been exceptionally nice
today. Our quarrel has blown over. I wish I had told him
about Bruce when we first met.
A tear rolled down Millicent’s white cheek and splashed upon the
paper, then suddenly she bowed her head and gave way to the grief
consuming her. The minutes lengthened, and at last she sat up and
dried her eyes. The outburst had brought physical relief, for during
the past twenty-four hours she had fought off every inclination to
allow her feelings sway, had suppressed all sign of emotion, and had
refused to discuss Bruce Brainard’s mysterious death, even with her
mother.
“Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.
Mrs. Porter had hoped that Millicent’s unnatural calm would give way
when unburdening herself to her old chum, Dorothy Deane, and she
had made opportunities to leave the girls together. But she was not
aware that Dorothy had shown an equal desire to avoid the topic of
the tragedy, and Millicent found to her secret relief that she was not
urged to confidences which she might later bitterly regret. But that
afternoon she had felt the need of being by herself, and had fled
upstairs, hoping her mother would not think of looking for her in the
attic.
Millicent pulled a chair close to her side and was on the point of
rising from her cramped position before the trunk when she heard
someone coming up the uncarpeted stairs. She slammed the ledger
shut and thrust it among the silks and laces in the trunk, and, pulling
out a vanity box, commenced powdering her nose and removing all
traces of recent tears.
“Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached.
“Me, Miss Millicent.”
“Oh, Murray!” Her tone spoke her relief. “Have you brought the
coffee and sandwiches I told Selby to order for me?”
“Yes, miss.” And the footman emerged from behind the highboy
which, with a Japanese screen, partly blocked the view of the cozy
corner from the rest of the attic.
“Just put the tray on my desk,” directed Millicent. “Has mother gone
out?”
“Yes, miss; she took Miss Dorothy in to Washington.” Murray moved
several of the desk ornaments to make room for the tray. “These
ladies called just now, Miss Millicent, but I said you were out.” And
he handed her a number of visiting-cards.
She barely glanced at the names before tossing the cards aside. “I
am thankful you did, Murray; make my excuses to callers for the
next week. I can see no one.”
“Very good, miss.” But Murray lingered, a troubled look in his eyes.
“The ’tec, Mitchell, left word that he’d be back this evening, miss,
and that he’s got to see you.”
“Oh, he has?” Millicent’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Inform Mr.
Mitchell that I decline to see him.”
“Yes, miss,” and Murray smiled broadly. “Shall I throw him out,
miss?”
“Heavens, no!” exclaimed Millicent. “You might get in serious trouble
with the law. He has, I suppose,” bitterly, “the right to hang about
the scene of a crime—detectives are sanctioned human vultures.”
“He is, miss; a regular troublesome, meddlesome busybody, getting
innocent people into trouble,” responded Murray feelingly. “He thinks
he’s so bright with his ideas—I’ll idea him.” And the footman,
forgetting his customary respectful attitude in his indignation,
doubled up his fists suggestively. “How is Miss Deane feeling, miss?”
“Who, Miss Vera? She is at last getting some rest; be sure, Murray,
and tell mother and Miss Dorothy not to disturb her when they
return.”
“Certainly, miss.” The footman turned to leave. “Anything else I can
get you, miss?”
“Not a thing, thank you.” But as Murray stepped around the highboy
she asked: “Any telegrams or telephones?”
“No telegrams, miss; but the telephone is going every instant, ’most
all of them are reporters.”
“Don’t give out any information, Murray,” she cautioned.
“Certainly not, miss.” And he hurried away.
Millicent waited until she heard the door at the foot of the attic stairs
close, then bent over the trunk and again took out the ledger and
carefully tore out a handful of pages. Before replacing the ledger in
its hiding-place she felt about under the false bottom until convinced
that the article she sought was still there, after which she put back
the ledger and the false bottom, rearranged the silks and laces, put
in the tray, and locked the trunk.
“If you are not going to drink your coffee, I will,” announced a voice
to her left, and a man stepped out from behind the Japanese screen.
A low cry escaped Millicent, and her hands closed spasmodically over
the pages torn from her ledger.
“Hugh!” she gasped. “Where—where have you been?”
“In town.” Wyndham stopped by the tray and, picking up the plate of
sandwiches, handed it to Millicent. She shook her head. “No?” he
queried; “then I’ll eat your share.” He poured out a cup of coffee and
drank it clear, almost at a gulp. “That’s delicious,” he declared. “I had
no idea I was so cold and hungry. Can’t I help you get up?”
But Millicent declined his proffered assistance, and rose somewhat
clumsily, both hands engaged in pressing the torn sheets into the
smallest possible compass.
“Where have you been, Hugh?” she asked again.
“Sitting on a trunk behind that screen waiting for Murray to go
downstairs,” he responded, refilling his cup.
“Then you came up to the attic just after he did?”
“In his wake, so to speak.” He shot a questioning look at her.
“Everyone appears to be out this afternoon.”
“Yes.” Millicent carefully turned her back to the dormer window and
sat down on the arm of her easy-chair. “You haven’t answered my
question, Hugh—where have you been ever since the inquest?”
“At the club.” Wyndham helped himself to another sandwich.
“Awfully sorry I couldn’t get in touch with Dorothy Deane and deliver
your message. I was sorry to disappoint you.”
“But I wasn’t disappointed. She received the message in time and
came last night.”
Wyndham seemed to have some difficulty swallowing his coffee.
“Is she still here?” he inquired as soon as he could speak.
“Yes. Mother insisted that she could run her social column from here
as well as from her boarding-house. Most of the social news is
gathered over the telephone,” explained Millicent vaguely. “And
mother promised to motor in to the office every afternoon and bring
her out again in the evening.”
Wyndham set his coffee-cup back on its saucer with small regard for
its perishable qualities.
“I might have known that she would come,” he said, half to himself;
then louder: “Intimate friends don’t have to be told when they are
needed.”
“Dorothy has so much tact—”
“Discussing me?” And Dorothy Deane appeared at Wyndham’s
elbow. There was a distinct pause as she recognized Millicent’s
companion, and her cheeks, rosy from her long motor ride in the
wind, paled. “Oh!” she ejaculated, with an attempt at lightness
which deceived but one of her hearers. “The wanderer has
returned.”
“Yes—returned to you,” was Wyndham’s quiet rejoinder, and his eyes
never left her. “It was very careless of you, Dorothy, not to leave
word at the office that you were coming out here last night.”
“If I had mentioned it the managing editor would have insisted that
I cover”—she stopped and colored painfully—“new developments for
the paper.”
Wyndham transferred his attention to his cousin. “New
developments,” he repeated. “Have there been any since I left last
night?”
His question did not receive an immediate reply, for Millicent had not
paid strict attention to their conversation, being absorbed in
secreting the sheets torn from her diary inside her gown.
“Nothing new,” she responded dully. “The detectives are still looking
for clues, and under that pretense poking their noses into everyone’s
concerns.”
“Let them. Who cares?” But Wyndham did not look so care-free as
his words implied. “Brainard’s death is a seven days’ wonder in
Washington, Millicent; so be prepared for all sorts of sensational
stories. Our friends will talk themselves to a standstill after a time.”
“I suppose sensational stories are to be expected,” admitted
Millicent, and she moved restlessly away from her chair. “But what
are Bruce’s friends doing?”
Wyndham looked at her quickly. “I don’t understand you—”
“I mean what steps are Bruce’s friends taking to trace the—the
murderer?”
Wyndham took a newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“Brainard’s brother has offered a reward of five thousand dollars for
the arrest of the criminal,” he stated, pointing to an article in the
paper.
Dorothy broke the silence with an impatient stamp of her foot. “The
fool!” she exclaimed. “He’d better have waited until it’s proven
beyond doubt that it was a murder and not a suicide.”
The newspaper crinkled in Millicent’s hand as she took it, and
Wyndham, his eyes roving about the cozy corner, stated quietly:
“The police have found that Brainard never shaved himself, but went
every morning to a barber shop just below his apartment house.
Apparently he never owned a razor, and the police seem to think
that evidence precludes all possibility of suicide.”
“I don’t see why,” protested Millicent, looking up from the paper. “If
Bruce contemplated suicide he could have purchased a razor.”
“True, but investigation proves that he did not buy a razor at any of
the dealers handling them in Washington, or at a pawnshop. I must
admit the police have been very thorough in their search,”
acknowledged Wyndham. “It’s all in the evening papers.” He stopped
for a moment, then added steadily, “I think, no matter how terrible
we find the idea, that we must accept the theory that Brainard was
murdered.”
Millicent caught her breath. “I don’t agree with you,” she retorted
obstinately. “Are we meekly to consider ourselves murderers just
because Bruce never, apparently, owned a razor?”
“You are right,” declared Dorothy, but her manner, to Wyndham’s
watchful eyes, indicated that she was clutching at a straw rather
than announcing her convictions. “Some friend might have loaned
him a razor— Heavens! what’s that?”
A loud hail sounded up the staircase. “Millicent! Millicent!” and they
recognized Mrs. Porter’s angry accents. “Why in the world are you
staying in that cold attic? Come down at once.”
“Yes, mother.” Millicent started for the staircase, casting an appealing
look at Dorothy as she passed her, and in mute response the latter
turned to follow, but at the top of the stairs Wyndham laid a
detaining hand on her shoulder.
“Wait,” he entreated, and as he met her wistful, frightened glance he
repressed with difficulty the emotion that threatened to master him.
“Dorothy, never forget I have your interests at heart to the exclusion
of all else.”
“Hush!” She raised a trembling hand to his lips, and seizing it he
pressed it against his cheeks.
“Dear, how cold you are!” he murmured fondly, caressing her hand.
“Hush!” she reiterated. “Hugh, you must not—this is not the time—”
“It is,” with obstinate fervor. “You cannot have forgotten—”
“Forgotten?” Dorothy started as if stung. “Would to heaven I could!”
“Then you understand?” She looked at him dumbly. “You are sure
you understand?”
Through a mist of tears Dorothy studied him, and as she met his
imploring gaze a wave of tenderness sent her other hand to meet his
eager clasp; then horror of herself, of her thoughts, checked her wild
longing to throw herself into his arms, and she drew back.
“It is because I understand,” she said, steadying her voice with an
effort, “that I shall never cease to reproach myself—”
“Stop!” Wyndham held up an imperative hand. “You must not
reproach yourself. Bruce Brainard deserved what he got. I tell you he
did—” noting her expression. “It was justifiable homicide.”
 CHAPTER X
THE BLACK-EDGED CARD

THE hall clock was just striking three on Thursday afternoon when
Murray stopped before the room occupied jointly by Mrs. Hall and
Vera and rapped smartly on the closed door. It was opened by Vera.
“You are wanted at the telephone, miss,” the footman announced,
and she stepped into the hall.
“Who wants me, Murray?”
“The party wouldn’t give his name.”
“Oh!” Vera’s footsteps lagged. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“No, miss. Shouldn’t wonder if it’s another ’tec,” he added gloomily.
Two whole days had passed and Mrs. Porter had not inquired for his
state of health, and even Vera had failed him as a confidante for his
latest symptoms; truly his world was out of joint. “I asked him for
his message and he said he had to speak to you personally.”
A second “Oh!” slipped from Vera, then she went downstairs in
thoughtful silence and was proceeding toward the library when
Murray, of whose presence she had grown oblivious, addressed her.
“I hopes, miss, you don’t hold yesterday’s doings in Mr. Brainard’s
room against me,” he said earnestly. “I feel very badly about it—
very.”
“I realize that you were not to blame,” answered Vera. “But the
others—” Her small hand clenched. “I’d rather forget the scene,
Murray; some day, perhaps, I’ll get square with those men for the
fright they gave me.”
“I hope you will, miss.” Murray threw open the library door. “I’m
wishing Mrs. Porter would give orders not to admit them. Me and
Selby are waiting our chance.” And he smiled significantly.
“Perhaps she will.” And Vera glanced earnestly at the footman. “You
are not looking very well today, Murray; have you tried that tonic Dr.
Noyes advised?”
The footman brightened. “I have, miss, but it don’t agree with me,
and the neuralgia’s getting worse.”
“That’s too bad. Come upstairs later and I will give you a tube of
Baume Analgésique Bengué.” As the French name tripped off her
tongue Murray regarded her with respectful admiration.
“It sounds great, miss; I’d like to use it, thank you.” And he departed
for his pantry, his manner almost cheerful.
Left to herself Vera closed the library door and approached the
telephone with some hesitancy; she could think of no friend who
would have a reason for not giving his name to the footman and
concluded Murray was right in imagining the “party” to be a
detective. Her interview with Mitchell the day before was still fresh in
her mind and she resented the idea of further impertinence. It
occurred to her, as she toyed with the receiver, that it was a simple
matter to ring off if she found it was Mitchell at the other end of the
wire; then a thought stayed her—suppose it was Dr. Beverly Thorne
waiting to speak to her? Her expression hardened, and her voice
sounded clear and cold as she called into the mouthpiece:
“Well?”
An unknown voice replied: “Is this Nurse Vera Deane?”
Vera’s expression altered. “Yes, what is it?”
“This is Police Headquarters,” went on the voice crisply, and Vera
started. “Inspector North speaking. Have you lost anything, Miss
Deane?”
“I? No.”
“Are you sure you have not lost your handbag?”
“My handbag!” Vera’s raised accents testified to her astonishment.
“No, certainly not.”
“Quite sure, Miss Deane?” insisted the inspector.
“Yes; but as a matter of form I’ll run upstairs and look. Hold the
telephone, please.” And Vera dashed up to her room and unlocked
her trunk; there lay her handbag, and pulling it open she found its
contents intact.
She was out of breath when she again reached the telephone, and
had to pause a second before speaking to the inspector.
“My handbag is upstairs, safe and sound,” she called.
“Thank you.” The inspector cleared his voice. “I called you up, Miss
Deane, because we found a handbag in a Mt. Pleasant car yesterday
afternoon containing your visiting-card, and we located you through
the Central Directory for Graduate Nurses.”
“My visiting-card?” echoed Vera, astonished. “Are you sure it was
mine?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Deane, your name is engraved in full on a black-
edged card. Good afternoon.” And he rang off.
A black-edged visiting-card? Vera sat clinging to the telephone
receiver in bewilderment—it had been fully five years since she had
had a black-edged visiting-card! Suddenly her ear detected the click
of a receiver being hung up, and the faintness of the sound aroused
her. Who had been listening in on the branch telephone in Mrs.
Porter’s boudoir?
Vera went straight to the boudoir, but before she reached it Millicent
walking down the hall paused in the act of entering her own room
and called her name softly.
“Mother is lying down,” she said as Vera drew nearer. “Dorothy and I
have just left the boudoir. Come and join us in my room.” And she
held out her hand with a little affectionate gesture which was
characteristic of her. Vera smiled, and under sudden impulse kissed
her; there was something very winsome about Millicent, mere child
as she was.
“Thanks, Millicent, I’ll come and sit with you later; but first I must
take my ‘constitutional’—I haven’t had a walk for several days, and I
need the fresh air.”
Millicent stroked her cheek with tender fingers. “Perhaps the wind
will put color there,” she said. “You are not getting proper rest, Vera;
for your pallor and heavy eyes tell the story.”
Vera shook her head in dissent. “I only need fresh air; don’t let that
foolish sister of mine put ideas into your head.” She stopped abruptly
as Hugh Wyndham stepped out of his aunt’s bedroom and joined
them.
“Good afternoon, Miss Deane,” he commenced cordially, but she
returned his greeting so perfunctorily that Millicent’s eyes opened
wide in surprise, and, reddening, Wyndham turned to his cousin.
“Are you going to motor in to Washington with us, Millicent? Better
come; you don’t have to leave the car or talk to anyone,” guessing
the cause of her hesitancy.
“True—” but still Millicent paused.
“I think you had better go,” put in Vera quietly, and barely glancing
at Wyndham she went to her own room.
Wyndham smiled reassuringly as he caught Millicent’s puzzled frown.
“Vera’s nerves are on edge,” he said. “I quite understand her
seeming rudeness.”
“Well, I don’t,” confessed Millicent. “Dorothy has a much sweeter
disposition than her sister, and on her account I overlook Vera’s
occasional tempers. Go and get the limousine, Hugh; Dorothy and I
will be ready in ten minutes.”
However, it was less than the prescribed ten minutes when Millicent
and Dorothy stood waiting in the lower hall for the arrival of the car,
and the latter, going into the library to collect some notes she had
left there, encountered her sister on her way out of the side
entrance to Dewdrop Inn.
“I wish you were going with us, Vera,” she exclaimed impulsively.
“Do come, there’s plenty of room in the limousine.”
“Not today, dear.” And Vera tempered the refusal with a kiss. She
glanced at the yellow copy paper Dorothy was busy stuffing inside
her muff. “Did you use the telephone in Mrs. Porter’s boudoir about
fifteen minutes ago?”
Dorothy shook her head. “No, but Mrs. Porter and then Hugh tried to
get Central.” Her sister’s reference to the boudoir recalled a recent
conversation, and she added briskly: “Vera, why are you so stand-
offish with the Porters? They are fond of you, yet you never spend
any time with them, and I think they feel it.”
Vera drew back from Dorothy’s detaining clasp. “I am here in my
professional capacity, Dorothy, and I don’t wish to intrude upon
them,” she said gently. “Better that they think me ‘stand-offish’ than
say I take advantage of ‘auld lang syne’ and push myself forward.”
“What nonsense! I declare, Vera, you are downright provoking, not
to say morbid,” protested Dorothy. “It’s the result of never getting
away from the atmosphere of the sick room. I don’t see how you
stand it; the mere sight of suffering drives me wild, and to think of
poor Craig Porter, whom I used to dance with, lying there inert—I
just could not go to his room today when Mrs. Porter asked me to do
so,” she wound up. “His changed appearance would break me down
completely. How can you watch him night after night?”
“You and Craig were great friends, whereas I never knew him in
those days.” Vera lowered her voice. “Let me see, did you first meet
him when we were in mourning?”
“No, before that, when Millicent and I were at Catonsville together.
We were great chums.” And she smiled, then winked away a sudden
rush of tears. “Poor Craig!”
“Don’t call him ‘poor’—he is rich in accomplishment,” rapped out
Vera. “Think what he has done for the Allies; get Mrs. Porter to tell
you of the honors paid Craig by the gallant Frenchmen, and never
call him poor again.”
“I wasn’t alluding to his past, but his present,” explained Dorothy,
somewhat startled by the gleam in her sister’s eyes. “I understand
he can’t utter a sound or move a muscle.”
“He can’t.” She paused as Millicent’s voice echoed down the hall.
“Go, dear, they are calling you.”
But Dorothy lingered. “Have you any errands I can attend to for you
in town?”
“N-no—wait.” Vera spoke hurriedly as steps approached. “See if you
can find my package of visiting-cards—”
“I told you months ago, Vera, that you hadn’t any left,” interrupted
Dorothy.
“Perhaps you can find an old one, even if it’s black-edged, in my
desk—”
Dorothy shook her head violently. “I can’t; I looked there at
Christmas and could not find any kind of a card. Coming right away,
Murray,” as the footman appeared. “Do you wish me to order some
cards struck off?”
“Yes,” called Vera. “Pay for it with the money I gave you yesterday.”
And Dorothy disappeared with Murray in attendance.
Vera waited until convinced that the limousine must have driven off,
then, tossing the blue cape with its small picturesque red cross
about her shoulders, she opened the side door and, skirting the back
of the house, walked swiftly past the garage. Passing down a lane
she crossed a field and went up a path leading to the “side hill,” as
that part of the Porter plantation was called.
The cold and wind of the preceding day had abated, and Vera took
deep breaths of the delicious, invigorating air, as, deserting the path,
she made her way among the trees and dead underbrush to a
clearing high up on the hillside, which, except from above, was
invisible from the path she had quitted some moments before. A
huge mica rock, known locally as Diamond Rock, occupied most of
the clearing, and Vera exclaimed with pleasure as she caught the
rainbow effects produced by the winter sunshine on its surface.
Stepping in clefts in the rock she slowly mounted to the top and
made herself comfortable. Once settled on her perch, she turned her
attention to the panoramic view of the Potomac River far below her
and the surrounding countryside.
But she barely saw the landscape, her thoughts being concentrated
upon the Porter limousine and its occupants. Too late she regretted
that she had not accompanied Millicent and Dorothy to Washington.
But when her sister had asked her, a feeling of abhorrence had
swept over her at the prospect of being inclosed in a small space
and listening to their chatter. Her desire to be out in the open and by
herself had gained the mastery; for an hour at least she could
wrestle with her problems and decide on the future. She resolutely
determined to put all thought of the past out of her mind, but it was
a greater task than she had imagined—the past would not bury its
dead!
Great drops of perspiration beaded her forehead as incidents of the
past three days rose before her: her first glimpse of Bruce Brainard
in bed Monday night—the tragedy—the inquest—the detectives—
Vera plucked at her handkerchief and pressed it against her forehead
and her cheeks, rubbing the latter vigorously. She must not think of
the past; the future concerned her more intimately.
She must decide on a course of action before Detective Mitchell
devised other methods to trap her, and remembrance of the scene in
Brainard’s bedroom twenty-four hours before brought a hot flush of
resentment in its train. She would square accounts with the
detective before many days had passed, and her pretty teeth met
with a determined snap. What troubled her was Beverly Thorne. She
wished that she might dismiss him from her mind; then shivered
involuntarily as she grudgingly admitted to herself that she feared
his quick intelligence, his ever-searching eyes and cynical smile. It
was an evil fate that had thrown him across her path. As the thought
crossed her mind, she saw someone moving in and out among the
trees to her right. The newcomer was making his way down the
hillside, and she watched him idly.
The man kept a zigzag course and she was unable to get a good
look at his face as, with cap pulled down over his forehead and the
collar of his Norfolk jacket turned up, he seemed intently scanning
the ground, pausing now and then to watch a switch which he
carried loosely before him in both hands. Suddenly he stopped and,
facing in her direction looked up long and earnestly into the bare
branches of a tall tree. Vera’s breath forsook her as she recognized
Beverly Thorne. Had she conjured him to appear?
After testing a lower branch of the tree with his weight Thorne
transferred his attention to the cleft stick in his hand and strode
onward. He was within a few yards of Vera before he discovered her
presence. There followed a momentary hesitation on his part, then
he advanced to the rock and bowed gravely.
“You have caught me trespassing,” he began. “What is the forfeit?”
Vera pointed in the direction he had come where a wire fence could
be seen in the distance; she knew that placards placed at intervals
announced: “No trespassing under penalty of the law.”
“As a ‘J. P.’ you must be aware of the penalty exacted for trespass,”
she answered, preparing to rise.
He noticed her movement, and raised his hand. “Don’t let me drive
you away,” he begged, appreciating to the full the charming picture
she made perched on the rainbow-hued rock, her blue cape and its
red cross in striking contrast to the dull colors of the woods. “I am
going.”
His announcement, however, while it had the effect of inducing Vera
to remain where she was, proved a mere figure of speech, as he did
not move from his place by the rock. At the end of a long silence
Vera could not restrain her impatience, and he caught the
antagonism she strove but faintly to conceal.
“Miss Deane”—Thorne skirted the rock and came closer to her—“I
am afraid you harbor resentment against me. I assure you that I had
no hand in the trick played on you by Detective Mitchell yesterday.”
“Your presence with the detective in the spare bedroom leads me to
think otherwise,” she replied coldly.
“I can explain,” he began, but her raised hand stayed him.
“Why attempt an explanation, doctor?” she asked, and her disdain
showed so plainly that he colored with indignation.
“Because I desire to set myself right in your eyes,” he answered.
“With what object?”
His eyes did not fall before the challenge in hers, while a warm,
sunny smile lightened the severe lines of his stubborn chin and
determined mouth.
“Object—matrimony,” he retorted, and she detected the twinkle in
his eyes and the faint mockery discernible in his voice. Her resolve
was instantly taken; she would meet him on the ground he had
chosen—woman’s wit against man’s intelligence was a game old
when Methuselah was young. She rose and dropped Thorne a half
courtesy, balancing herself on the rock with graceful ease.
“On so short an acquaintance your jest is flattering, but ill-timed.”
She paused, then added, “I thank you—and decline.”
“Wait.” He laid down the switch of witch-hazel and drew nearer. “Our
acquaintance is not so short; it commenced six years ago in New
York.”
Vera stared at him intently. “I fail to recollect,” she began, and
paused uncertainly.
Instead of answering verbally he took out his leather wallet and,
searching among its contents, finally produced a black-edged
visiting-card. On the reverse side were traced the words:
February 14—In grateful remembrance.