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glowering. His boots were soggy with wet. He growled, “Hello,” in his surly manner and went to the fire to toast his big reddened hands. He paid no attention whatever to Thorne, although he glanced once, swiftly, at Ellery in passing.
    â€œWhere’ve you been, Nick? Go in and have your dinner.”
    â€œI ate before you came.”
    â€œWhat’s been keeping you?”
    â€œI’ve been hauling in firewood. Something you didn’t think of doing.” Keith’s tone was truculent, but, Ellery noticed that his hands were shaking. Damnably odd! His manner was noticeably not that of a servant, and yet he was apparently employed in a menial capacity. “It’s snowing.”
    â€œSnowing?”
    They crowded to the front windows. The night was moonless and palpable, and big fat snowflakes were sliding down the panes.
    â€œAh, snow,” sighed Dr. Reinach; and for all the sigh there was something in his tone that made the nape of Ellery’s neck prickle. “‘The whited air hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, and veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.’”
    â€œYou’re quite the countryman, Doctor,” said Ellery.
    â€œI like Nature in her more turbulent moods. Spring is for milksops. Winter brings out the fundamental iron.” The doctor slipped his arm about Keith’s broad shoulders. “Smile, Nick. Isn’t God in His heaven?”
    Keith flung the arm off without replying.
    â€œOh, you haven’t met Mr. Queen. Queen, this is Nick Keith. You know Mr. Thorne already.” Keith nodded shortly. “Come, come, my boy, buck up. You’re too emotional, that’s the trouble with you. Let’s all have a drink. The disease of nervousness is infectious.”
    Nerves! thought Ellery grimly. His nostrils were pinched, sniffing the little mysteries in the air. They tantalized him. Thorne was tied up in knots, as if he had cramps; the veins at his temples were pale blue swollen cords and there was sweat on his forehead. Above their heads the house was soundless. Dr. Reinach went to the sideboard and began hauling out bottles—gin, bitters, rye, vermouth. He busied himself mixing drinks, talking incessantly. There was a purr in his hoarse undertones, a vibration of pure excitement. What in Satan’s name, thought Ellery in a sort of agony, was going on here?
    Keith passed the cocktails around, and Ellery’s eyes warned Thorne. Thorne nodded slightly; they had two drinks apiece and refused more. Keith drank doggedly, as if he were anxious to forget something.
    â€œNow that’s better,” said Dr. Reinach, settling his bulk into an easy chair. “With the women out of the way and a fire and liquor, life becomes almost endurable.”
    â€œI’m afraid,” said Thorne, “that I shall prove an unpleasant influence, Doctor. I’m going to make it unendurable.”
    Dr. Reinach blinked. “Well, now,” he said. “Well, now.” He pushed the brandy decanter carefully out of the way of his elbow and folded his pudgy paws on his stomach. His purple little eyes shone.
    Thorne went to the fire and stood looking down at the flames, his back to them. “I’m here in Miss Mayhew’s interests, Dr. Reinach,” he said, without turning. “In her interests alone. Sylvester Mayhew died last week very suddenly. Died while waiting to see the daughter whom he hadn’t seen since his divorce from her mother almost twenty years ago.”
    â€œFactually exact,” rumbled the doctor, without stirring.
    Thorne spun about. “Dr. Reinach, you acted as Mayhew’s physician for over a year before his death. What was the matter with him?”
    â€œA variety of things. Nothing extraordinary. He died of cerebral hemorrhage.”
    â€œSo your certificate claimed.” The lawyer leaned forward. “I’m not entirely convinced,” he said slowly,