“Yes. Have you detected the criminal?” Kent put the question with unmoved countenance, but with inward foreboding; the detective's mysterious manner was puzzling.
“Not yet, but I will,” Ferguson hesitated. “The first thing was to establish that a crime had really been committed.”
Kent bent down and sniffed again at the handkerchief to which a faint fruity aroma still clung.
“How did you discover that?” he asked.
“Dr. McLane and I took the handkerchief to a laboratory and the chemist found from the number of particles of capsules in the handkerchief, that at least two capsules—or double the usual dose—had been crushed by Turnbull and the fumes inhaled by him; with fatal results.”
“Hold on,” cautioned Kent. “In the flurry of the moment, Turnbull may have accidentally put two capsules in the handkerchief, meaning only to use one.”
“Mr. Kent,” the detective spoke impressively, “that wasn't Turnbull's handkerchief.”
“Not his own handkerchief!” exclaimed Kent. “Then, are you sure that Turnbull used it?”
“Yes; that fact is established by reputable witnesses; Dr. Stone, Mr. Clymer, and the deputy marshal,” Ferguson spoke with increasing earnestness. “That is a woman's handkerchief—look at it.”
Ferguson laid the little bundle on the broad arm of Kent's chair and with infinite care folded back the edges of the handkerchief, revealing as he did so, the small particles of capsules still clinging to the linen. But Kent hardly observed the capsules, his entire attention being centered on one corner of the handkerchief, which had neatly embroidered on it the letter “B.”