"I knew that," replied Kennedy. "I examined his arm, where he usually took his shots, and found no fresh mark of the needle."
"That doesn't prove anything. Wait until the medical examiner gets here. He'll find the fellow's heart all shot full of hop, or something. I guess it isn't so complicated, after all. He was a hop fiend, all right."
"Still, there's nothing to indicate that he was a suicide."
"Not suicide; accident-overdose," was the sergeant's reply.
"How could he have died from an overdose of the drug, when he hasn't taken any recently?"
"Well"—unabashed—"then he croaked because he hadn't had a shot—the same thing. Heart failure, either way. Excited, and all, you know, making the scene. Maybe he forgot to use the needle at that."
"Perhaps you're right." Kennedy shrugged calmly. What was the use of disputing the matter?
I started to protest against the detective's hypothesis. The idea of any drug addict ever forgetting to take his stimulant was too preposterous. But Kennedy checked me. All were now keenly listening to the argument. Better, perhaps, to let some one think that nothing was suspected than to disclose the cards in Craig's hand. I saw that he wished to get away and had not spoken seriously. He turned to Mackay.
"Walter and I will have to hurry to the laboratory. Would you like to come along?"
"You bet I would!" The district attorney showed his delight. "I was just going to ask if I might do so. There's nothing for me in Tarrytown to-day and this is out of my jurisdiction."