“Oh, no.” Shively leaned forward and spoke louder, to make sure that he was heard above the rattle of the train. “I could find no mark on Tilghman’s body; he had most certainly not been either stabbed or shot. And then, although all indications were against my theory, I thought of poison.”
“Did you have a stomach pump with you?” asked Norcross, who was listening with absorbed attention.
“Unfortunately, no. But on examining Tilghman’s mouth I detected the odor of alcohol, and removing the absorbent cotton from the cavity in his lower back tooth, I submitted it to chemical tests and found traces of a solution of oxalic acid and brandy.”
Barclay turned cold. Brandy containing poison? Where in the world was his flask? What had become of it? His thoughts running riot, he listened dazedly to the conductor’s excited questions.
“What’s oxalic acid?” asked the latter.
“A vegetable poison, better known under the name of ‘salts of lemon’; a powder which, if dissolved in alcohol, kills almost instantly,” was the reply. “Also, the symptoms it produces are identical with heart failure, the acid producing manifestation of great weakness, small pulse, and failure of the heart’s power.”
“So Tilghman simply faded away before our eyes,” exclaimed Norcross sorrowfully. “Oh, the pity of it!”
“He didn’t die before our eyes,” retorted Shively tartly. “By the condition of the body I judge Tilghman had been dead about six hours.”
His listeners stared at him, astounded.
“Do you mean to say Mr. Tilghman sat in that chair with us all about him, stone dead, and we never discovered it for six hours?” questioned the conductor in open incredulity.