"What is it?" I asked. "Have you found out anything?"
"This seems to be almost plain sodium carbonate," he replied, mechanically.
"And that indicates?" I prompted.
"Perhaps nothing, in itself," he went on, less abstractedly. "But the use of sodium carbonate and other things which I have discovered in other samples disengages carbon dioxide at the temperature of baking and cooking. If you'll look in that public-health report on my desk you'll see how the latest investigations have shown that bicarbonate of soda and a whole list of other things which liberate carbon dioxide destroy the vitamines Leslie was talking about. In other words, taken altogether I should almost say there was evidence that a concerted effort was being made to affect the food—a result analogous to that of using polished rice as a staple diet—and producing beriberi, or, perhaps more accurately, polyneuritis. I can be sure of nothing yet, but—it's worth following up."
"Then you think Kato—"
"Not too fast," cautioned Craig. "Remember, others had access to the kitchen, too."
In spite of his hesitancy, I could think only of the two paragraphs we had read in Mrs. Wardlaw's will, and especially of the last. Might not Kato have been forced or enticed into a scheme that promised a safe return and practically no chance of discovery? What gruesome mystery had been unveiled by the anonymous letter which had first excited our curiosity?
It was late in the afternoon that Commissioner Leslie called us up, much excited, to inform us that the drooping pigeon was already pecking at food and beginning to show some interest in life. Kennedy seemed greatly gratified as he hung up the receiver.
"Almost dinner-time," he commented, with a glance at his watch. "I think we'll make another hurried visit to the Wardlaw apartment."
We had no trouble getting in, although as outsiders we were more tolerated than welcome. Our excuse was that Kennedy had some more questions which we wished to ask Miss Langdale.