Whitney, the innocent cause of all this commotion, was still in the writing-room with his letters.
"I think I ought to tell him," decided Kennedy as we passed down the lobby.
He seemed surprised to see us, as we strolled up to his writing desk, but pushed aside the few letters which he had not finished and asked us to sit down.
"I don't know whether you have noticed it," began Craig, "but I wonder how you feel?"
Whitney had expected something else rather than his health as the subject of a quiz. "Pretty good now," he answered before he knew it, "although I must admit that for the past few days I have wondered whether I wasn't slowing up a bit—or rather going too fast."
"Would you like to know why you feel that way?" asked Craig.
Whitney was now genuinely puzzled. It was perfectly evident, as it had been all the time, that he had not the slightest inkling of what was going on.
As Craig briefly unfolded what we had discovered and the reason for it,
Whitney watched him aghast.
"Poisoned cigarettes," he repeated slowly. "Well, who would ever have thought it. You can bet your last jitney I'll be careful what I smoke in the future, if I have to smoke only original packages. And it was that, partly, that ailed Mendoza?"
Kennedy nodded. "Don't take any pilocarpine, just because I told you that was what I used. You have given yourself the best prescription, just now. Be careful what you smoke. And, don't get excited if you seem to be stepping on matches up there in your room for a little while, either. It's nothing."