But now Jimmie Dale swayed up from his chair.
“Murdered!” he exclaimed tensely. “Your father! But—but I remember perfectly, there was no hint of any such thing at the time, and never has been since. He died from quite natural causes.”
She looked at him strangely.
“He died from—inoculation,” she said. “Did—did you not see something of that laboratory in the Crime Club yourself the night before last—enough to understand?”
“Good God!” muttered Jimmie Dale, in a startled way then: “Go on! Go on! What happened then?”
She passed her hand a little wearily across her eyes—and sank down into her chair again.
“Travers,” she continued, picking up the thread of her story, “had raised his voice, and the third man at the table leaned suddenly, aggressively toward him.
“'Hold your tongue!' he growled furiously. 'All you're asked to do is sign the papers—not talk!'
“Travers shook his head.
“'I won't!' he cried out. 'I won't have any hand in another murder—in hers! My God, I won't—I won't, I tell you! It's horrible!'