“Baron Kreiger, I presume?” he inquired.
The young man nodded.
“Burke of the Secret Service,” introduced Craig, indicating our friend. “My name is Kennedy. Tell what happened.”
“I had just concluded a transaction,” returned Kreiger in good but carefully guarded English. “Suddenly the door burst open. She seized these papers and dashed a cigarette out of my hands. The next instant she had touched a match to them and had fallen in a faint almost in the blaze. Strangest experience I ever had in my life. Then all these other fellows came bursting in—said they were Secret Service men, too.”
Kennedy had no time to reply, for a cry from Annenberg directed our attention to the next room where on a couch lay a figure all huddled up.
As we looked we saw it was a woman, her head sweating profusely, and her hands cold and clammy. There was a strange twitching of the muscles of the face, the pupils of her eyes were widely dilated, her pulse weak and irregular. Evidently her circulation had failed so that it responded only feebly to stimulants, for her respiration was slow and labored, with loud inspiratory gasps.
Annenberg had burst with superhuman strength from Burke’s grasp and was kneeling by the side of his wife’s deathbed.
“It—was all Paula’s fault—” gasped the woman. “I—knew I had better—carry it through—like the Fortescue visit—alone.”
I felt a sense of reassurance at the words. At least my suspicions had been unfounded. Paula was innocent of the murder of Fortescue.
“Severe, acute nicotine poisoning,” remarked Kennedy, as he rejoined us a moment later. “There is nothing we can do—now.”