“True. Well, he couldn’t have flung a flask through a window glass or a screen without doing considerable damage, of which there is no indication; besides which, the action of the poison is very swift, he would not have had the strength to make any such attempt.” Dropping on his knees Shively, with the aid of a powerful magnifying glass, examined the carpet beneath Tilghman’s chair and the chair itself. “There is no stain, showing Tilghman did not drop the cup out of which he was drinking. No, no, someone else was in this car, administered the poison, and carried off the incriminating glass or flask.”
“Then it must have been that little Jap, Mr. Ito,” ejaculated the conductor. “He’s got the creepiest ways, and there was bad blood between him and Mr. Tilghman, witness their fight this noon.”
“Suppose you bring Mr. Ito here,” suggested Norcross, then addressing Shively. “It will do no harm to question him.”
The physician nodded, and drawing out his notebook made several entries; neither he nor Norcross paid attention to Julian Barclay, who was striding nervously up and down the aisle. Should he speak of having loaned his flask to Tilghman? Would they believe him entirely innocent if they knew— The entrance of the Japanese and the conductor broke in on his troubled cogitations.
The Japanese stopped before Dr. Shively, bowed profoundly, and waited in impressive silence for him to speak.
“Mr. Ito,” began Shively, with a courteous acknowledgment of the other’s salutation. “I sent for you to inform you that Mr. Tilghman is dead.”
“Who is Mr. Tilghman?” inquired Ito.
“The man you fought here this morning.”
“I no fought man,” denied Ito politely. “Stranger fell upon me and I struggled to stand—that all. Mr. Tilghman, you say his name, he no well when he stagger and fall on me, and now he dead?”
“And now he is dead,” repeated Shively, raising his voice so as to be heard above the rumble of the train. “Dead, from drinking a poisonous compound derived from rice.”