“And have you really discovered who killed Clevedon?” Thoyne asked.
“Yes,” I returned equably, “you did.”
“I expected that,” Thoyne rejoined, with a wry smile. “I think you have suspected me all along. I seem to have been the villain of the piece all through.”
“No,” I replied, “you do me an injustice. You were only one among half a dozen. Let me tell you the story. It is very simple, and a few words will encompass it. Grainger hated you because of his daughter, and when you ordered that sleeping mixture from him he filled the phial with prussic acid. His intention was to kill you. That Clevedon was his victim was only an accident. Clevedon called on you earlier on the night on which he died, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how you discovered it. I let Clevedon in myself, and not a soul saw us.”
“But it is a fact.”
“Oh yes, quite. He came to see me to tell me he had resigned any pretensions to marry”—he paused and glanced a little waveringly at Kitty Clevedon—“to the young lady we both wanted. We were friendly enough in a way.”
“You did not disclose this visit at the inquest?”
“No, the question was never asked, and I kept quiet, for fear I might say too much. I don’t regret it,” he added fiercely.
“It has worked out all right,” I replied, “though it gave me a lot of extra trouble and delayed my solution. However, you conducted your visitor to the door and stood for a few minutes in the porch, chatting to him. You were to be relatives by marriage, and had no particular desire to quarrel. You were willing to forget that he had been Calcott—”