"If it were a slow-smoldering—"
"Shirley's anger wasn't that kind."
"But good heavens!" As usual I arrived nowhere in an argument with
Kennedy. "Circumstantial evidence points to Werner almost altogether—"
"You've forgotten one point in your chain, Walter."
"What's that?"
"Whoever took the needle from the curtain last night scratched himself on it and left blood spots on the portieres, tiny ones, but real blood spots, nevertheless. That means the intruder inoculated himself with venom. I doubt that the poison was so dry as to be ineffectual. If it was Werner, how do you account for the fact that he is still alive?"
"Do you"—I guess my eyes went wide—"do you expect to dig up a dead man somewhere? Is there some one we suspect and haven't seen since yesterday?"
He didn't answer, preferring to tantalize me.
"How do you account for it yourself?" I demanded, somewhat hotly.
"Let's call it a day, Walter," he rejoined. "Let's go to bed!"