“On what charge?” demanded Rochester.
“Poisoning your room-mate, Mr. Turnbull,” replied the detective, drawing out a pair of handcuffs. “You are mighty clever, Mr. Rochester. I've got to hand it to you for your mysterious disappearances in and out of this apartment, and for murdering Mr. Turnbull right in the police court in the presence of the judge, police officials, and spectators.”
Kent stepped forward at sight of the handcuffs and laid a restraining hand on the detective's shoulder. Rochester saw the movement, guessed Kent's intention, and smiled.
“We can settle the case here,” he said cheerfully. “No need of troubling the police judge. Now, Mr. Detective, how did I kill Jimmie Turnbull before all those people without any one becoming aware of the fact?”
“Slipped the poison in the glass of water you handed him,” answered Ferguson promptly. “A nervy sleight-of-hand, but you'll swing for it.”
Rochester's smile was exasperating as he turned to Dr. Stone.
“Judging from Stone's remarks about aconitine—which I overheard,” he interpolated. “I gather the doctor is tolerably familiar with the action of the drug. Does aconitine kill instantly, doctor?”
Stone cleared his throat before speaking. “No; the fatal period averages about four hours,” he said, and Rochester's eyes sparkled as he looked up at the detective.
“Jimmie died almost immediately after I handed him that drink of water,” he declared. “If you wish to know who administered that aconitine poison, you will have to find out who Jimmie was with at the McIntyre house in the early hours of Tuesday morning.”
The sharp imperative ring of the telephone bell cut the silence which followed. Kent, standing nearest the instrument, picked it up, and recognized Sylvester's voice over the wire.