“Did you ever hear of coating the skin by a substance which is impervious to water, smooth and elastic?” asked Kennedy quietly as Waldon’s tender sped along back to Seaville.
“Why—er, yes,” he said frankly, raising his eyes and looking at Craig in surprise. “There have been a dozen or more such substances. The best is one which I use, made of pyroxylin, the soluble cotton of commerce, dissolved in amyl acetate and acetone with some other substances that make it perfectly sterile. Why do you ask?”
“Because some one has used a little bit of it to cover a few slight cuts on the back of the neck of Mrs. Edwards.”
“Indeed?” he said simply, in a tone of mild surprise.
“Yes,” pursued Kennedy. “They seem to me to be subcutaneous incisions of the neck with a very fine scalpel dividing the two great pneumogastric nerves. Of course you know what that would mean—the victim would pass away naturally by slow and easy stages in three or four days, and all that would appear might be congestion of the lungs. They are delicate little punctures and elusive nerves to locate, but after all it might be done as painlessly, as simply and as safely as a barber might remove some dead hairs. A country coroner might easily pass over such evidence at an autopsy—especially if it was concealed by skin varnish.”
I was surprised at the frankness with which Kennedy spoke, but absolutely amazed at the coolness of Jermyn. At first he said absolutely nothing. He seemed to be as set in his reticence as he had been when we first met.
I watched him narrowly. Waldon, who was driving the boat, had not heard what was said, but I had, and I could not conceive how anyone could take it so calmly.
Finally Jermyn turned to Kennedy and looked him squarely in the eye. “Kennedy,” he said slowly, “this is extraordinary—most extraordinary,” then, pausing, added, “if true.”
“There can be no doubt of the truth,” replied Kennedy, eyeing Dr. Jermyn just as squarely.
“What do you propose to do about it?” asked the doctor.