"Some one send for a doctor, quick," he commanded, taking charge of things as a matter of course. "Hurry!" he repeated. "He's gasping for air and it'll be too late in a minute."
Then he saw us. "Walter—Mackay"—he raised Werner's head—"push everyone back, please! Give him a chance to breathe!"
A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as politely but firmly I widened the space about Kennedy and the director. Was this a case of suicide? Had Werner known we were coming for him? Had he thought to bring about his own end in the most spectacular fashion possible? Was this the fancy of a drug-weakened brain?
Suddenly I realized that Werner was trying to speak. One of the camera men had helped Kennedy lift him to the top of a table, swept of its dishes and linen, so as to make it easier for him to breathe.
"Out in Tarrytown," he muttered, weakly, "that night—I suspected—and—saw—" His voice trailed off into nothingness. Even the motion of his lips was too feeble to follow.
In an instant I grasped the cruel injustice I had done this man in my mind. It was now that I remembered, in a flash, Kennedy's attitude and was glad that Kennedy had not suspected him.
"See!" I faced Mackay, speaking in quick, low tones so the others could not hear. "I—we—have been totally and absolutely wrong in suspecting Werner. Instead, it was he who has been playing our game—trying to confirm his own suspicions. I've been entirely wrong in my deductions from the discovery of his dope and needles."
"What do you mean, Jameson?" The district attorney had been taken completely off his feet by the unexpected developments. His eyes were rather dazed, his expression baffled. "What do you mean?"
"Why he was out at Tarrytown that night, all right, don't you see—but—but he was the second man, the man who watched!"
Mackay still seemed unable to comprehend.