“She probably guessed that it was used to kill Miss Susan Baird in some way, and brought it back to incriminate Miss Kitty Baird,” declared Mitchell. “Mrs. Parsons was as clever as they make them, but she overreached herself when she tried to involve you, Mr. Rodgers. I kept the wires to San Francisco hot until I found out that the papers she produced to prove that you were involved in the Holt will forgery were ones found in Gentleman Jake’s house, when he and his confederates were trying to forge Holt’s will.” He turned to Craige. “Did you put Mrs. Parsons up to that deviltry, Mr. Craige?”
Craige ignored the question and Potter broke his long silence.
“I imagine he did,” he said. “Mrs. Parsons was the divorced wife of Gentleman Jake, and later she married Amos Parsons. He left some property and she came east. She’d have lived straight, Craige, if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Craige,” Mitchell’s harsh voice made the lawyer turn with a nervous jump. “Did you conceal that small bottle of prussic acid in the ivory dice cup?”
“Yes,” sullenly, then with a venomous glance at Kitty. “I hoped to involve you.”
“You yellow devil!” Ted Rodgers rose and stepped toward him, but Mitchell intervened.
“The law will deal with him, Mr. Rodgers; stand back, Sir. Now, Craige, come on—” and, at a sign, Welsh, the detective, took his place by the lawyer.
Twice Craige tried to get upon his feet, only to sway back into his seat. He had aged in the past hour, and when he finally stood upright his shoulders sagged forward and his trembling knees seemed unable to support him.
“Catch him on the other side, Welsh,” Mitchell directed. “Mr. Potter, please telephone to Coroner Penfield.” With a jerk of his head he indicated the prone figure behind them. “Mrs. Parsons cannot be moved until he gets here. Come, Craige.”