Guest looked at him in astonishment, then at the table, where, in the broad circle of light, he saw the letters his friend had written, one being directed to himself.
They explained little, but the next instant he saw the wide-mouthed, stoppered bottle, caught it up, examined the label, and held it at arm’s length.
“The cyanide!” he cried excitedly. “Mal! Stratton, old chap! Good God! You surely—no, it is impossible. Speak to me, old man! Tell me, or I shall go mad! Did Edie refuse you?”
Stratton’s hands dropped from his face as he rose in his seat, staring wildly at his friend.
“Edie!” he said wonderingly.
“Yes, Edie!” cried Guest excitedly as he bent down toward his friend. “Here, stop a minute; what shall I do with this cursed stuff?”
Striding to the window, he threw it open, leaned out, and dashed the bottle down upon the pavement, shivering it and its contents to fragments.
“Now speak,” he cried as soon as he had returned. “No fooling, man; speak the truth.”
“Edie?” said Stratton again as he sat there trembling as if smitten by some dire disease.
“Yes. You told me you were going to tell her of your success—to ask the admiral to give you leave to speak to her.”