“Is this the box the medicine came in?” and Kent placed the cover in Stone's hand.
Stone turned the paste-board over and studied the defaced label. “I cannot answer that question positively,” he said. “The label bears my name and that of the druggist, but the directions are missing.”
“But the number's on it,” put in Kent swiftly. “Come, Stone, call up the druggist, repeat the number to him, and ask if it calls for your aconitine prescription.”
Stone hesitated as if about to speak, then, reaching out his hand, he picked up the telephone and held a short conversation with the drug clerk of the Thompson Pharmacy.
“That is the box which contained the aconitine pills for Mrs. Brewster,” he said, when he had replaced the telephone. “Now, Kent, I have secured the information you wished; kindly tell me your reasons for desiring it.”
It was Kent's turn to hesitate. “Do you know many instances where aconitine was used by murderers?” he questioned.
“N-no. I believe it was the drug used in the celebrated Lamson poison case,” replied the physician slowly. “I cannot recall any others just at the moment.”
“How about suicides?”
“It is seldom, if ever, used for suicides.” Stone spoke with more assurance. “I have found in my practice, Kent, that suicides can be classed as follows: drowning by the young, pistols by the adult, and hanging by the aged; women generally prefer asphyxiation, using illuminating gas. But this is beside the question, unless”—bending a penetrating look at his companion—“unless you believe Jimmie Turnbull committed suicide.”
“That idea has occurred to me,” admitted Kent. “But it doesn't square with other facts which have developed, nor is it in keeping with the character of the man.”