"Do you suggest he was poisoned then, and came back hours afterwards to die in the office?"
"You think that unlikely?"
"I do."
"Still, we must recollect the action of this particular poison," said Quarles. "It produces drowsiness, the time necessary to get to this condition varying in different persons, and the doctor, knowing Farrell, might be able to gage how long it would take in his case. Of course, we labor under difficulties. Three years having passed, we cannot rely on direct investigation. Purposely I gave you no bias when I asked you to gather up the known facts, and from your report I judge you have come to the conclusion that Farrell committed suicide, possibly driven into a corner by some international complication."
"Yes, on the whole, I lean to that idea."
"It is not the belief of Mr. Delverton himself."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I met Martin Delverton in Devonshire. He was yachting round the coast and came ashore for golf. We played together several times, and became quite friendly. It was not until he began to talk about it that I remembered there had ever been a Delverton mystery. Practically he gave me the same history of the case as your report does, missing some points certainly, but enlarging considerably on others. That the villain had escaped justice seemed to rankle in his mind, and he was contemptuous of the intelligence of Scotland Yard. The tragedy, he said, had hastened his brother's end, and I judged he had no great love for the Morrisons."
"He knew who you were, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; and included my intelligence in the sneer at Scotland Yard. He argued the point with me until he forced me to admit that there was a large element of luck in most of my successes."