“Aconitine?”
“Exactly. Your theory is that Rochester slipped the poison in the glass of water on recognizing Turnbull in the police court; now, it is stretching probability to suppose that Rochester, a strong healthy man, was carrying that drug around in his vest pocket.”
Ferguson sat forward in his chair, his eyes glittering. “Do you mean to say that you think the murder of Turnbull was premeditated and not committed on the spur of the moment?” he asked.
“The fact that aconitine was used convinces me of that,” answered Kent.
Ferguson thought a moment. “If that is the case,” he said, grudgingly, “it sort of squashes the charge against Philip Rochester.”
“It would seem to,” agreed Kent. “But every shred of evidence I find points to Rochester as the guilty man.”
Ferguson edged his chair forward. “What have you discovered?” he demanded eagerly.
“This,” Kent spoke with increased earnestness. “That Philip Rochester is apparently a bankrupt, that he has over-drawn his private account at the Metropolis Trust Company, and withdrawn our partnership funds from the same bank.”
“Your partnership funds!” echoed the detective, eyeing Kent sharply. “How did you come to let him do that?”
“I was not aware that he had done so until Mr. Clymer told me of the transaction this afternoon,” answered Kent.