“Shaded, but not shady, eh?” Tarleton returned with a curl of the lip. “But come, it is time to see if the dead has any evidence to give about himself.”
Thrusting his gold repeater carelessly into his pocket, he deftly stripped the body of its long Inquisitor’s robe. Underneath was revealed an evening suit of fine material and faultless cut with a white silk waistcoat and soft-fronted shirt. They were the clothes of a man of good position, as Sir Frank had said, and a man accustomed to respect himself. A Bohemian would scarcely have troubled to dress himself so carefully beneath a domino.
Captain Charles viewed this correct attire with the approval of a military man. “A gentleman as you guessed, Sir Frank.”
“As I inferred,” the doctor responded sharply, “I never guess.” His capable fingers were already exploring the pockets of the corpse. Most of them seemed to be empty, but presently he extracted a silver matchbox from the waistcoat, and opened it. A low sound like a suppressed whistle came from his tight lips as he shook out on the palm of his hand two pellets the size of small peas.
Of all my experiences on that eventful night, or rather morning, this was the most amazing. Only by a strong effort was I able to keep my astonishment within due bounds. Although I had thrown out the suggestion of suicide, the last thing I had expected was to find poison on the dead man’s person.
My chief passed me one of the pellets, and put the other first to his nostrils and then to the tip of his tongue.
“Well?” He motioned to me to imitate his action.
There could be no doubt about the result of the test. “Opium in a highly concentrated form, and soluble,” I whispered hoarsely.
We exchanged looks of intense surprise. The Inspector on his part was evidently surprised by our attitude.
“Then Dr. Cassilis was right after all,” he said, staring at us. “It was suicide?”