“Well, I suppose if it had been given hypodermically, it would have a more violent effect,” I persisted, trying to figure out a way that the poison might have been given.
“Even more unlikely,” objected Craig, with a delight at discovering a new mystery that to me seemed almost fiendish. “No, he would certainly have felt a needle, have cried out and said something about it, if anyone had tried that. This poisoned needle business isn’t as easy as some people seem to think nowadays.”
“Then he might have absorbed it from the water,” I insisted, recalling a recent case of Kennedy’s and adding, “by osmosis.”
“You saw how difficult it was to dissolve in water,” Craig rejected quietly.
“Well, then,” I concluded in desperation. “How could it have been introduced?”
“I have a theory,” was all he would say, reaching for the railway guide, “but it will take me up to Stratfield to prove it.”
His plan gave us a little respite and we paused long enough to lunch, for which breathing space I was duly thankful. The forenoon saw us on the train, Kennedy carrying a large and cumbersome package which he brought down with him from the laboratory and which we took turns in carrying, though he gave no hint of its contents.
We arrived in Stratfield, a very pretty little mill town, in the middle of the afternoon, and with very little trouble were directed to the Pearcy house, after Kennedy had checked the parcel with the station agent.
Mrs. Pearcy, to whom we introduced ourselves as reporters of the Star, was a tall blonde. I could not help thinking that she made a particularly dashing widow. With her at the time was Isabel Pearcy, a slender girl whose sensitive lips and large, earnest eyes indicated a fine, high-strung nature.
Even before we had introduced ourselves, I could not help thinking that there was a sort of hostility between the women. Certainly it was evident that there was as much difference in temperament as between the butterfly and the bee.