Let
go, I say."
Clymer aided the detective in freeing himself. "Sit down, Kent,"
he said sternly. "Ferguson meant no offense. Go ahead, man, and
tell us the rest of your theories."
It was some minutes, however, before the detective had collected
sufficient breath to answer intelligently.
"I size it up this way," he began with a resentful glance at Kent
who had dropped back in his chair again. "Rochester knew his
friend had heart disease and that his sudden death would be
attributed to it - so he took a sporting chance and administered
a fatal dose of aconitine."
"How was it done?" asked Clymer.
"Just slipped the poison into the glass of water he handed to
Turnbull in the court room," explained Ferguson, and glanced in
triumph at Kent. "Neat, wasn't it?"
Kent regarded the detective, his mind in a whirl. His theory was
certainly plausible, but - "Have you other evidence to prove, your
theory?" he asked.
"Yes." Ferguson checked off his points on his fingers. "Remember
how insistent Mr. Rochester was that Turnbull had died from
angina pectoris?"
"I do," acknowledged Clymer, deeply interested.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161