Again Heath’s canny smile appeared.
“He’s been tailed ever since Rex was shot.”
Vance regarded him admiringly.
“I’m becoming positively fond of you, Sergeant,” he said; and beneath his chaffing note was the ring of sincerity.
O’Brien leaned ponderously over the table and, brushing the ashes from his cigar, fixed a sullen look on the District Attorney.
“What was this story you gave out to the papers, Mr. Markham? You seemed to want to imply that the old woman took the strychnine herself. Was that hogwash, or was there something in it?”
“I’m afraid there was nothing in it, Inspector.” Markham spoke with a sense of genuine regret. “Such a theory doesn’t square with the poisoning of Ada—or with any of the rest of it, for that matter.”
“I’m not so sure,” retorted O’Brien. “Moran here has told me that you fellows had an idea the old woman was faking her paralysis.” He rearranged his arms on the table and pointed a short thick finger at Markham. “Supposing she shot three of the children, using up all the cartridges in the revolver, and then stole the two doses of poison—one for each of the two girls left; and then supposing she gave the morphine to the younger one, and had only one dose left. . . .” He paused and squinted significantly.
“I see what you mean,” said Markham. “Your theory is that she didn’t count on our having a doctor handy to save Ada’s life, and that, having failed to put Ada out of the way, she figured the game was up, and took the strychnine.”
“That’s it!” O’Brien struck the table with his fist. “And it makes sense. Furthermore, it means we’ve cleared up the case—see?”