Strange, however, seemed to find comfort in the coroner’s words. With a determined look on his hard-bitten face, he wheeled.
“Deweese,” he rasped, in a tone calculated to impress on the hearer the absolute certainty of his words, “the coroner declares that you were poisoned.” He shook a finger at the artist, as if daring him to deny it. “The poison was probably administered several hours before you felt the effects of it. Now think! Who gave it to you? Who had the opportunity to give it to you? Who had a motive?”
“I was not poisoned,” rejoined Deweese, quietly but emphatically. “I was choked—choked by an unseen thing that whispered in my ear. Not only did I hear it whisper, but I felt it breathing in my face as well.”
Peret half rose to his feet, opened his lips as if to speak, then grunted and sat down in his chair again. Nevertheless, this new bit of evidence, if such it might be called, seemed to impress him, and he continued to eye the artist eagerly.
“Who is this man,” asked Dobson.
Strange, with a gesture of helplessness, explained.
“You see what we are up against, Chief,” he said. “I know how to trace a flesh and blood murderer, but, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I’ll be damned if I know how to run down a spook, with no more substantial clues than a breath and a whisper.”
“Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are you, that you were not attacked by a human being?” questioned the major.
“I am as certain of it as I am that I am alive,” answered the artist.