“What's it look like?” he answered, almost appealingly. “I put it to you, now!—what does it look like? Here's this man been poisoned without a doubt—I'm certain of it. And—there were those rumours—it's idle to deny that they centred in Ransford. And—this morning Ransford had the chance!”
“That's arguing that Ransford purposely carried a dose of poison to put into Collishaw's tin bottle!” said Bryce half-sneeringly. “Not very probable, you know, Mitchington.”
Mitchington spread out his hands.
“Well, there it is!” he said. “As I say, there's no denying the suspicious look of it. If I were only certain that those rumours about what Collishaw hinted he could say had got to Ransford's ears!—why, then—”
“What's being done about that post-mortem?” asked Bryce.
“Dr. Coates and Dr. Everest are going to do it this afternoon,” replied Mitchington. “The Coroner went to them at once, as soon as I told him.”
“They'll probably have to call in an expert from London,” said Bryce. “However, you can't do anything definite, you know, until the result's known. Don't say anything of this to anybody. I'll drop in at your place later and hear if Coates can say anything really certain.”
Mitchington went away, and Bryce spent the rest of the afternoon wondering, speculating and scheming. If Ransford had really got rid of this man who knew something—why, then, it was certainly Ransford who killed Braden.
He went round to the police-station at five o'clock. Mitchington drew him aside.
“Coates says there's no doubt about it!” he whispered. “Poisoned! Hydrocyanic acid!”