Stephen Roland turned quietly around and shook the hand from his
shoulder. It was evident that he recognized Stratton instantly.
"Is this a Chicago joke?" asked the doctor.
"If it is, Mr. Roland, I think you will find it a very serious one."
"Aren't you afraid that _you_ may find it a serious one?"
"I don't see why I should have any fears in the premises," answered the
newspaper man.
"My dear sir, do you not realize that I could knock you down or shoot
you dead for what you have done, and be perfectly justified in doing
so?"
"If you either knock or shoot," replied the other, "you will have to do
it very quickly, for, in the language of the wild and woolly West, I've
got the drop on you. In my coat pocket is a cocked revolver with my
forefinger on the trigger. If you make a hostile move I can let daylight
through you so quickly that you won't know what has struck you."
"Electric light, I think you mean," answered the doctor, quietly. "Even
a Chicago man might find it difficult to let daylight through a person
at this time in the evening. Now, this sort of thing may be Chicago
manners, but I assure you it will not go down here in Cincinnati. You
have rendered yourself liable to the law if I cared to make a point of
it, but I do not. Come back with me to my study. I would like to talk
with you."
Stratton began to feel vaguely that he had made a fool of himself. His
scheme had utterly failed. The doctor was a great deal cooler and more
collected than he was. Nevertheless, he had a deep distrust of the
gentleman, and he kept his revolver handy for fear the other would make
a dash to escape him. They walked back without saying a word to each
other until they came to the doctor's office. Into the house they
entered, and the doctor bolted the door behind them. Stratton suspected
that very likely he was walking into a trap, but he thought he would
be equal to any emergency that might arise. The doctor walked into the
study, and again locked the door of that. Pulling down the blinds, he
turned up the gas to its full force and sat down by a table, motioning
the newspaper man to a seat on the other side.
"Now," he said calmly to Stratton, "the reason I did not resent your
unwarrantable insult is this: You are conscientiously trying to get at
the root of this mystery. So am I. Your reason is that you wish to score
a victory for your paper. My motive is entirely different, but our
object is exactly the same. Now, by some strange combination of
circumstances you have come to the conclusion that I committed the
crime. Am I right?"
"You are perfectly correct, doctor," replied Stratton.
"Very well, then. Now, I assure you that I am entirely innocent. Of
course, I appreciate the fact that this assurance will not in the
slightest degree affect your opinion, but I am interested in knowing why
you came to your conclusion, and perhaps by putting our heads together,
even if I dislike you and you hate me, we may see some light on this
matter that has hitherto been hidden. I presume you have no objection at
all to co-operate with me?"
"None in the least," was the reply.
"Very well, then. Now, don't mind my feelings at all, but tell me
exactly why you have suspected me of being a murderer."
"Well," answered Stratton, "in the first place we must look for a
motive. It seems to me that you have a motive for the crime."
"And might I ask what that motive is, or was?"
"You will admit that you disliked Brenton?"
"I will admit that, yes."
"Very well. You will admit also that you were--well, how shall I put
it?--let us say, interested in his wife before her marriage?"
"I will admit that; yes."
"You, perhaps, will admit that you are interested in her now?"
"I do not see any necessity for admitting that; but still, for the
purpose of getting along with the case, I will admit it. Go on."
"Very good. Here is a motive for the crime, and a very strong one.
First, we will presume that you are in love with the wife of the man
who is murdered. Secondly, supposing that you are mercenary, quite
a considerable amount of money will come to you in case you marry
Brenton's widow. Next, some one at that table poisoned him. It was not
Mrs. Brenton, who poured out the cup of coffee. The cup of coffee was
placed before Brenton, and my opinion is that, until it was placed
there, there was no poison in that cup. The doomed man was entirely
unsuspicious, and therefore it was very easy for a person to slip enough
poison in that cup unseen by anybody at that table, so that when he
drank his coffee nothing could have saved him. He rose from the table
feeling badly, and he went to his room and died. Now, who could have
placed that poison in his cup of coffee? It must have been one of the
two that sat at his right and left hand. A young lady sat at his right
hand. She certainly did not commit the crime. You, Stephen Roland, sat
at his left hand. Do you deny any of the facts I have recited?"
"That is a very ingenious chain of circumstantial evidence. Of course,
you do not think it strong enough to convict a man of such a serious
crime as murder?"
"No; I quite realize the weakness of the case up to this point. But
there is more to follow. Fourteen days before that dinner you purchased
at the drug store on the corner of Blank Street and Nemo Avenue thirty
grains of morphia. You had the poison put up in capsules of five
grains each. What do you say to that bit of evidence added to the
circumstantial chain which you say is ingenious?"
The doctor knit his brows and leaned back in his chair.
"By the gods!" he said, "you are right. I did buy that morphia. I
remember it now. I don't mind telling you that I had a number of
experiments on hand, as every doctor has, and I had those capsules put
up at the drug store, but this tragedy coming on made me forget all
about the matter."
"Did you take the morphia with you, doctor?"
"No, I did not. And the box of capsules, I do not think, has been
opened. But that is easily ascertained."
The doctor rose, went to his cabinet, and unlocked it. From a number of
packages he selected a small one, and brought it to the desk, placing it
before the reporter.
"There is the package. That contains, as you say, thirty grains of
morphia in half a dozen five-grain capsules. You see that it is sealed
just as it left the drug store. Now, open it and look for yourself. Here
are scales; if you want to see whether a single grain is missing or not,
find out for yourself.
"Perhaps," said the newspaper man, "we had better leave this
investigation for the proper authorities."
"Then you still believe that I am the murderer of William Brenton?"
"Yes, I still believe that."
"Very well; you may do as you please. I think, however, in justice
to myself, you should stay right here, and see that this box is not
tampered with until the proper authorities, as you say, come."
Then, placing his hand on the bell, he continued--"Whom shall I send
for? An ordinary policeman, or some one from the central office? But,
now that I think of it, here is a telephone. We can have any one brought
here that you wish. I prefer that neither you nor I leave this room
until that functionary has appeared. Name the authority you want brought
here," said the doctor, going to the telephone, "and I will have him
here if he is in town."
The newspaper man was nonplussed. The Doctor's actions did not seem like
those of a guilty man. If he were guilty he certainly had more nerve
than any person Stratton had ever met. So he hesitated. Then he said--
"Sit down a moment, doctor, and let us talk this thing over."
"Just as you say," remarked Roland, drawing up his chair again.
Stratton took the package, and looked it over carefully. It was
certainly just in the condition in which it had left the drug store; but
still, that could have been easily done by the doctor himself.
"Suppose we open this package?" he said to Roland.
"With all my heart," said the doctor, "go ahead;" and he shoved over to
him a little penknife that was on the table.
The reporter took the package, ran the knife around the edge, and opened
it. There lay six capsules, filled, as the doctor had said. Roland
picked up one of them, and looked at it critically.
"I assure you," he said, "although I am quite aware you do not believe a
word I say, that I have not seen those capsules before."
He drew towards him a piece of paper, opened the capsule, and, let the
white powder fall on the paper. He looked critically at the powder, and
a shade of astonishment came over his face. He picked up the penknife,
took a particle on the tip of it, and touched it with his tongue.
"Don't fool with that thing!" said Stratton.
"Oh, my dear fellow," he said, "morphia is not a poison in small
quantities."
The moment he had tasted it, however, he suddenly picked up the paper,
put the five grains on his tongue, and swallowed them.
Instantly the reporter sprang to his feet. He saw at once the reason for
all the assumed coolness. The doctor was merely gaining time in order to
commit suicide.
"What have you done?" cried the reporter.
"Done, my dear fellow? nothing very much. This is not morphia; it is
sulphate of quinine."