“Yes, Dr. Carstairs, he told me that the only way to get rid of my murderous propensities was to give way to them. He advised me to kill Samuel.”
This really was beyond my power to believe. “Samuel?” I repeated.
“Yes, my beautiful black cat, the one that slept at the foot of my bed every night.”
Tarleton raised his head quickly.
“Did he suggest that you should give him the poison from Sumatra?” he put in.
The explorer’s sister nodded.
The object of the advice she had received was plain enough. The scoundrel wanted to test the effect of the poison; perhaps he felt some doubt if it was still active. Beyond that his intentions were dark. Such a man was quite capable of committing a murder by deputy, and he might have designed to make an instrument of this deluded patient of his. But, if so, there was nothing to tell us whose life he had been aiming at. He had felt himself to be surrounded by enemies, according to Madame Bonnell’s statement. He may have wished to provide himself with a weapon for use in case of need.
The worthy owner of Samuel told us that she had refused to slay her pet.
“I sent him away for fear I should be tempted to kill him,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I found him a happy home with a former maid of mine who is married and living in the country. She writes me about him once a month, when I send her a postal order. I shall never dare to have him back again.”
My youthful indignation became too much for me.