He looked at it curiously, dug his nail into the soft mass, then rubbed his nail over the tip of his tongue gingerly.
With a wry face, as if the taste were extremely acrid, he moistened his handkerchief and wiped off his tongue vigorously.
“Even that minute particle that was on my nail makes my tongue tingle and feel numb,” he remarked, still rubbing. “Let us go back again. I want to see Bernardo.”
“Had he any visitors during the day?” queried Kennedy, as he reentered the ghastly little room, while the curator stood outside, completely unnerved by the tragedy which had been so close to him without his apparently knowing it. Kennedy was squeezing out from the little wound on Northrop’s neck a few drops of liquid on a sterilized piece of glass.
“No; no one,” Bernardo answered, after a moment.
“Did you see anyone in the museum who looked suspicious?” asked Kennedy, watching Bernardo’s face keenly.
“No,” he hesitated. “There were several people wandering about among the exhibits, of course. One, I recall, late in the afternoon, was a little dark-skinned woman, rather good-looking.”
“A Mexican?”
“Yes, I should say so. Not of Spanish descent, though. She was rather of the Indian type. She seemed to be much interested in the various exhibits, asked me several questions, very intelligently, too. Really, I thought she was trying to—er—flirt with me.”
He shot a glance at Craig, half of confession, half of embarrassment.