Craige shifted his feet about. “No,” he muttered.
“Did she know that you killed Miss Susan Baird?” Rodgers was persistent in his questioning.
“I’m not sure,” Craige glanced up at him quickly, then dropped his eyes. The sight of his handcuffs sent a shiver down his spine and he again shifted his gaze.
“Mrs. Parsons done picked up dat ar’ rubber ball befo’ she left on Monday mawnin’,” volunteered Oscar. The old man had been a fascinated witness of all that transpired; his face, gray from fright at the death of Cecelia Parsons, had regained its normal hue somewhat, but his eyes still bulged from his head.
“She did!” A startled look crept into Craige’s ever shifting eyes. “Why, I found the cat playing with the syringe when I first entered this room. I knew that I had dropped it on Sunday, probably when I reëntered the library after Susan Baird screamed.” A shudder shook him, in spite of his iron self-control. “Seeing it here this afternoon, I supposed it had rolled in some corner, and been overlooked. I judged that the cat had selected it as a plaything.”
“It’s a wonder the cat didn’t poison herself,” commented Mitchell.
Craige’s face was distorted into what he meant for a smile. “There wasn’t a drop of poison left in the syringe,” he said. “I considered finding it a direct act of Providence, for I expected trouble of some kind, and brought with me a small phial of a concentrated solution of crotalidae—”
“What’s that?” asked Mitchell.
“Snake venom, and deadly when introduced into the blood,” explained Craige. “It’s sometimes used in drugs given by homeopathists. During the few minutes I was alone in the library I put the poison in the syringe.”
“But if Mrs. Parsons carried away the syringe on Monday morning, how did it get back in this library to-day?” asked Kitty.