The arrest of the gunman and his opponent, as well as of Cecilie as a witness, seemed imminent. Kennedy moved forward slowly, working his way through the crowd, nearer to the table. Instead of interfering, however, he stooped down and picked up something from the floor.
"Let's get out of this as quickly as possible, Walter," he whispered, turning to me.
When we reached the street, he stopped under an arc-light, and I saw him dive down into his pocket and pull out a little glass vial. He looked at it curiously.
"I saw her take it out of her pocketbook and throw it into a corner as soon as the policeman came in," he explained.
"What do you think it is?" I asked. "Dope? That's what they all do if they get a chance when they are pinched—throw it away."
"Perhaps," answered Kennedy. "But it's worth studying to see what drug she is really using."
Late as it was, Craig insisted on going directly to the laboratory to plunge into work. First, he took the little hypodermic needle with which he had drawn several drops of blood from the race-horse, and emptied the contents into a test tube.
Finding that I was probably of more use at home in our apartment asleep than bothering Kennedy in the laboratory, I said good-night. But when I awoke in the morning, I found that Kennedy had not been in bed at all.
It was as I expected. He had worked all night, and, as I entered the laboratory, I saw him engaged in checking up two series of tests which he had been making.
"Have you found anything yet?" I asked.