“So James Turnbull was poisoned after all,” he commented. “A week ago I would have sworn that Jimmie hadn't an enemy in the world.”
“Ah, but he had; and a very bitter vindictive enemy, if the evidence given at the coroner's inquest this afternoon is to be believed,” replied Clymer seriously. “The case is remarkably puzzling.”
“It is.” Kent bit savagely at his cigar as a slight vent to his feelings. “'Killed by a dose of aconitine by a person or persons unknown,' was the jury's verdict, and a nice tangle they have left me to ferret out.''
“You?”
“Yes. I'm going to solve this mystery if it is a possible thing.” Kent's tone was grim. “And Colonel McIntyre only gave me until Saturday night to work in.”
Clymer eyed him in surprise. “McIntyre desires to get back his lost securities; judging from his comments after the inquest, he is not particularly interested in who killed Turnbull.”
“But I am,” exclaimed Kent. “The more I think of it, the more convinced I am that the forged letter, with the subsequent disappearance of McIntyre's securities has some connection with Jimmie's untimely death, be it murder or suicide.”
“Suicide?” Clymer's raised eyebrows indicated his surprise.
“Yes,” shortly. “Aconitine would have killed just as surely if swallowed with suicidal intent as if administered with murderous design.”
A pause followed which neither man seemed anxious to break, then Kent turned to the banker, and the latter noticed the haggard lines in his face.