“Nor do I,” said David curtly.
Edward stared again.
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Mottisfont might have lived for some time,” said David Blake, speaking slowly. “I was attending him for a chronic illness, which would have killed him sooner or later. But it didn’t kill him. It didn’t have a chance. He died of poisoning—arsenic poisoning.”
One of Edward’s hands was lying on the table. His whole arm twitched, and the hand fell over, palm upwards. The fingers opened and closed slowly. David found himself staring at that slowly moving hand.
“Impossible,” said Edward, and his breath caught in his throat as he said it.
“I’m afraid not.”
Edward leaned forward a little.
“But, David,” he said, “it’s not possible. Who—who do you think—who would do such a thing? Or—suicide—do you think he committed suicide?”
David drew himself suddenly away from the table. All at once the feeling had come to him that he could no longer touch what Edward touched.