"Lucky thing that doctor friend of yours was at hand," he said, irrelevantly. "Known him long, by the way?"
"Well, no, not what you might call long," was the surprised reply. "We came over on board the same ship together a few months ago. He's a French-Canadian doctor, only on a visit, I believe. A charming man——" But his words apparently fell on deaf ears, for Cleek was again bending over the body, and before either of the men could save him his foot had caught on something and he measured his length on the polished floor, his wrist doubled beneath him. He was on his feet, immediately, with Narkom's assistance, but he surveyed his wrist with a rueful smile.
"It's a pity he isn't here now," he ejaculated. "I've done for my wrist this time—broken it, I think."
The secretary uttered a little sound indicative of mild sympathy.
"He'll turn up in a minute. I'll 'phone through to him. He is lodging quite near." And turning, Mr. Belthouse ran to the office on the other side of the hall.
"Is it broken, Cleek?" asked Mr. Narkom, anxiously, as he looked into his ally's face. A significant wink was the only response.
"I'd like to see that doctor who calls curari poisoning heart disease," he whispered. "Look." He turned and pulled down the collar of the dead man, showing a tiny red spot just under the chin, so small as to be hardly noticeable.
"Poisoned," he whispered, "but whether by our excellent secretary or the good doctor remains to be seen."
Two minutes later Mr. Belthouse rushed back into the room.