“D—mn you!” Kent sprang for the detective's throat. “Cut out your abominable insinuations. Miss McIntyre shall not be insulted.”
“I'm not insulting her,” gasped Ferguson, half strangled. “Let go, Mr. Kent. I'm only telling you what that half crazy partner of yours, Rochester, was probably thinking in the police court. Let go, I say.”
Clymer aided the detective in freeing himself. “Sit down, Kent,” he said sternly. “Ferguson meant no offense. Go ahead, man, and tell us the rest of your theories.”
It was some minutes, however, before the detective had collected sufficient breath to answer intelligently.
“I size it up this way,” he began with a resentful glance at Kent who had dropped back in his chair again. “Rochester knew his friend had heart disease and that his sudden death would be attributed to it—so he took a sporting chance and administered a fatal dose of aconitine.”
“How was it done?” asked Clymer.
“Just slipped the poison into the glass of water he handed to Turnbull in the court room,” explained Ferguson, and glanced in triumph at Kent. “Neat, wasn't it?”
Kent regarded the detective, his mind in a whirl. His theory was certainly plausible, but—“Have you other evidence to prove, your theory?” he asked.
“Yes.” Ferguson checked off his points on his fingers. “Remember how insistent Mr. Rochester was that Turnbull had died from angina pectoris?”
“I do,” acknowledged Clymer, deeply interested. “Continue, Ferguson.”