The first glass showed no reaction. Someone had been vindicated.
The second was neutral likewise—another person in the room had been proved innocent.
The third—no change. Science had released a third.
The fourth—
Almost it seemed as if the record in my pocket burned—spontaneously—so intense was my feeling. There in the glass was that fatal, telltale white precipitate.
“My God, it's the milk ring!” whispered Tom close to my ear.
Hastily Kennedy dropped the serum into the fifth. It remained as clear as crystal.
My hand trembled as it touched the envelope containing my record of the names.
“The person who wore the coat with that blood-stain on it,” declared Kennedy solemnly, “was the person who struck Lewis Langley down, who choked him and then dragged his scarcely dead body across the floor and obliterated the marks of violence in the blazing log fire. Jameson, whose name is opposite the sign on this glass?”
I could scarcely tear the seal to look at the paper in the envelope. At last I unfolded it, and my eye fell on the name opposite the fatal sign. But my mouth was dry, and my tongue refused to move. It was too much like reading a death-sentence. With my finger on the name I faltered an instant.