Guy gave a short laugh, and said: “It's what he thinks, all the same.” He hesitated, and looked at Randall again. “What line are they taking? What does that Superintendent-fellow make of it?”
“My poor child, do you imagine that I am in his confidence?” said Randall.
“I thought you might have gathered something. They're baffled, aren't they? I don't see how they can be anything else. There's nothing to show who did it. Anybody might have, but how are they going to prove which it was?”
“I haven't the slightest idea,” replied Randall. “I imagine it might be helpful if they discover how the nicotine was administered, but I gather they haven't yet arrived at that. There may, of course, be some startling disclosures at the inquest tomorrow. I hope you've learned your piece, by the way?”
“Oh, you're thinking of that blasted whiskey-and-soda, are you?” said Guy. “So easy for me to doctor it with the whole family sitting round!”
“Well, I don't know,” said Randall pensively. “I think I could have done it.”
“You! I daresay you could. Probably would have if you'd had half a chance.”
Randall gave his soft laugh. “But I hadn't half a chance, little cousin. I wasn't here. I'm afraid you'll have to rule me out. A pity, of course, but there it is.”
“Oh, do shut up!” begged Stella. “What's the use of going on like this? It makes everything ten times worse than it is already. I can't see what you're worrying about, Guy. We know you didn't do it, and if the police think you did at least they can't do anything about it, because they've nothing to go on. I mean, they can't even test the glass uncle drank out of, because it was washed up days before they came here.”
“Guy isn't worrying about that,” Randall said, watching Guy's face from under his lashes. “Perhaps it wasn't in the whiskey-and-soda.”