'I mean nothing, except this: Edgecumbe, I presume, has been a man of the world; how he lost his memory—assuming, of course, that he has lost it—is a mystery. But he has lived in India, and possibly, while there, went the whole hog. Excuse me, Luscombe, but I have no romantic notions about him. He seems to be on the high moral horse just now, but what his past has been neither of us know. As I said, life in India plays ducks and drakes with a man's constitution, especially if he has been a bit wild. Doubtless the remains of some old disease is in his system, and—and—we saw the results.' He lit a cigarette as he spoke, and I noticed that his hand was perfectly steady.
'Is that your explanation?' I asked.
'I have no explanation,' he replied, 'but that seems to me as likely as any other.'
'Because, between ourselves,' I went on, 'both McClure and Merril think he was poisoned.'
He was silent for a few seconds, as though thinking, then he asked quite naturally, 'How could that be?'
'McClure, as you know, was an Army doctor in India,' I said.
'Well, then, if any one ought to know, he ought,' and he puffed at his cigarette; 'but what symptoms did he give of being poisoned?'
I detailed Edgecumbe's condition, his torpor, and the symptoms which followed.
'Is there anything suggestive of poisoning in that?' he asked, like a man curious.
'McClure seems to think so.'