“How—”
Dr. Balman glanced at me, apparently noting my presence for the first time.
“Overdose of morphine,” he said.
“Morphine!” I was shocked out of the numbness that had enveloped me. “Morphine. But he was not to have morphine. How do you know?”
With a laconic gesture he showed me the tiny hypodermic scar on the patient’s arm.
“That—and look here—the pupils of his eyes,” Dr. Balman drew the lids upward gently. “As well as his general condition. You know——”
I nodded slowly. Morphine!
It was then that a strange thing happened. We were all staring at the small wound, else we should not have seen the little pin-prick of red that crept slowly from it. It was not a drop by any means, it was barely enough to be visible, but it brought to our minds the old superstition: a corpse bleeds when its murderer is near. A cold shiver crept up my back as I looked, and Dr. Balman sprang to his feet with a hoarse word or two, and Maida cried out, gasping, and started back, and even phlegmatic Dr. Hajek muttered something under his breath and drew his hand across his eyes.
With an effort I controlled myself. This sort of thing would turn us all into gibbering idiots and there was much to be done.
“Dr. Balman,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, “Dr. Letheny is caught out in the storm somewhere and we have not yet been able to find him. Mr. Jackson was not to have morphine: it was not ordered and moreover at twelve-thirty he was all right. He has evidently been—killed—so that someone could steal the radium. There will be—confusion. Someone must take charge from now on—and since Dr. Letheny is gone——”