I knew Wilford as a lawyer, still comparatively young and well known almost to the point of notoriety, for of late he had taken many society divorce cases. Altogether, his office had become a sort of fashionable court of domestic relations.
"Here's the strange thing," hastened Leslie, taking advantage of Kennedy's momentary interest before he could return to another retort laden with some new material. "We found in the office, on the desk, two glasses. In one there seemed to be traces of nothing at all—but in the other I have discovered decided traces of atropin."
"That looks promising," remarked Kennedy, his analysis now entirely forgotten.
"That's why I decided to call you in. Will you help me?"
"Craig," I interrupted, "I don't know much about Vail Wilford, but he has had such an unsavory reputation that—well, I'd hesitate. I've always considered him a sort of society rat."
"What difference does that make, Walter?" argued Craig, turning on me suddenly. "If a crime has been committed, I must get at it. It is my duty—even if the man is a 'rat,' as you call him. Besides, this promises to be a very interesting case. Where is the body?" he asked, abruptly, in as matter-of-fact a tone as if it had been a wrecked car towed to a garage.
"Removed to his apartment on the Drive," replied Doctor Leslie, now much encouraged and not concealing it. "I've just come from the place. That was where I saw Honora Wilford."
"How did Mrs. Wilford take it?" asked Craig. "Has she been told all this yet?"
"Not about the atropin, I think. That's just what I wanted to tell you about. She was grief-stricken, of course. But she did not faint or do anything like that."
"Then what was it?" hastened Kennedy, impatiently.