Kennedy turned to Mackay as the banker disappeared out of earshot. "That's just to cool him off a bit. I have everything I came to get right here." Producing a pair of pocket scissors, he cut the pierced and spotted bit of silk from the portieres, ruthlessly. It was necessary vandalism.
"What was the poison, Mr. Kennedy?" Mackay asked, in a low voice.
"I think that it was closely allied to the cyanide groups in its rapacious activity."
"But you haven't identified it yet?"
"No. So far I haven't the slightest idea of its true nature. It seems to have a powerful affinity for important nerve centers of respiration and muscular co-ordination, as well as possessing a tendency to disorganize the blood. I should say that it produces death by respiratory paralysis and convulsions. To my mind it is an exact, though perhaps less active, counterpart of hydrocyanic acid. But that is not what it is or I would have been able to prove it before this."
Mackay nodded, listening in silence.
"You'll say nothing of this?" Kennedy added.
"I'll be silent, of course."
Heavy footsteps from the rear marked the return of Phelps, who had covered the upper floors, descending by the back stairs so as to have a look at the kitchen.
"Everything seems to be all right," he remarked, half graciously.