From Whose Bourne

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Stephen Roland turned quietly around and shook the hand from hisshoulder. It was evident that he recognized Stratton instantly.

  "Is this a Chicago joke?" asked the doctor.

  "If it is, Mr. Roland, I think you will find it a very serious one."

  "Aren't you afraid that _you_ may find it a serious one?"

  "I don't see why I should have any fears in the premises," answered thenewspaper man.

  "My dear sir, do you not realize that I could knock you down or shootyou dead for what you have done, and be perfectly justified in doingso?"

  "If you either knock or shoot," replied the other, "you will have to doit very quickly, for, in the language of the wild and woolly West, I'vegot the drop on you. In my coat pocket is a cocked revolver with myforefinger on the trigger. If you make a hostile move I can let daylightthrough you so quickly that you won't know what has struck you."

  "Electric light, I think you mean," answered the doctor, quietly. "Evena Chicago man might find it difficult to let daylight through a personat this time in the evening. Now, this sort of thing may be Chicagomanners, but I assure you it will not go down here in Cincinnati. Youhave rendered yourself liable to the law if I cared to make a point ofit, but I do not. Come back with me to my study. I would like to talkwith you."

  Stratton began to feel vaguely that he had made a fool of himself. Hisscheme had utterly failed. The doctor was a great deal cooler and morecollected than he was. Nevertheless, he had a deep distrust of thegentleman, and he kept his revolver handy for fear the other would makea dash to escape him. They walked back without saying a word to eachother until they came to the doctor's office. Into the house theyentered, and the doctor bolted the door behind them. Stratton suspectedthat very likely he was walking into a trap, but he thought he wouldbe equal to any emergency that might arise. The doctor walked into thestudy, and again locked the door of that. Pulling down the blinds, heturned up the gas to its full force and sat down by a table, motioningthe newspaper man to a seat on the other side.

  "Now," he said calmly to Stratton, "the reason I did not resent yourunwarrantable insult is this: You are conscientiously trying to get atthe root of this mystery. So am I. Your reason is that you wish to scorea victory for your paper. My motive is entirely different, but ourobject is exactly the same. Now, by some strange combination ofcircumstances you have come to the conclusion that I committed thecrime. Am I right?"

  "You are perfectly correct, doctor," replied Stratton.

  "Very well, then. Now, I assure you that I am entirely innocent. Ofcourse, I appreciate the fact that this assurance will not in theslightest degree affect your opinion, but I am interested in knowing whyyou came to your conclusion, and perhaps by putting our heads together,even if I dislike you and you hate me, we may see some light on thismatter that has hitherto been hidden. I presume you have no objection atall to co-operate with me?"

  "None in the least," was the reply.

  "Very well, then. Now, don't mind my feelings at all, but tell meexactly why you have suspected me of being a murderer."

  "Well," answered Stratton, "in the first place we must look for amotive. It seems to me that you have a motive for the crime."

  "And might I ask what that motive is, or was?"

  "You will admit that you disliked Brenton?"

  "I will admit that, yes."

  "Very well. You will admit also that you were--well, how shall I putit?--let us say, interested in his wife before her marriage?"

  "I will admit that; yes."

  "You, perhaps, will admit that you are interested in her now?"

  "I do not see any necessity for admitting that; but still, for thepurpose of getting along with the case, I will admit it. Go on."

  "Very good. Here is a motive for the crime, and a very strong one.First, we will presume that you are in love with the wife of the manwho is murdered. Secondly, supposing that you are mercenary, quitea considerable amount of money will come to you in case you marryBrenton's widow. Next, some one at that table poisoned him. It was notMrs. Brenton, who poured out the cup of coffee. The cup of coffee wasplaced before Brenton, and my opinion is that, until it was placedthere, there was no poison in that cup. The doomed man was entirelyunsuspicious, and therefore it was very easy for a person to slip enoughpoison in that cup unseen by anybody at that table, so that when hedrank his coffee nothing could have saved him. He rose from the tablefeeling badly, and he went to his room and died. Now, who could haveplaced that poison in his cup of coffee? It must have been one of thetwo that sat at his right and left hand. A young lady sat at his righthand. She certainly did not commit the crime. You, Stephen Roland, satat his left hand. Do you deny any of the facts I have recited?"

  "That is a very ingenious chain of circumstantial evidence. Of course,you do not think it strong enough to convict a man of such a seriouscrime as murder?"

  "No; I quite realize the weakness of the case up to this point. Butthere is more to follow. Fourteen days before that dinner you purchasedat the drug store on the corner of Blank Street and Nemo Avenue thirtygrains of morphia. You had the poison put up in capsules of fivegrains each. What do you say to that bit of evidence added to thecircumstantial chain which you say is ingenious?"

  The doctor knit his brows and leaned back in his chair.

  "By the gods!" he said, "you are right. I did buy that morphia. Iremember it now. I don't mind telling you that I had a number ofexperiments on hand, as every doctor has, and I had those capsules putup at the drug store, but this tragedy coming on made me forget allabout the matter."

  "Did you take the morphia with you, doctor?"

  "No, I did not. And the box of capsules, I do not think, has beenopened. But that is easily ascertained."

  The doctor rose, went to his cabinet, and unlocked it. From a number ofpackages he selected a small one, and brought it to the desk, placing itbefore the reporter.

  "There is the package. That contains, as you say, thirty grains ofmorphia in half a dozen five-grain capsules. You see that it is sealedjust as it left the drug store. Now, open it and look for yourself. Hereare scales; if you want to see whether a single grain is missing or not,find out for yourself.

  "Perhaps," said the newspaper man, "we had better leave thisinvestigation for the proper authorities."

  "Then you still believe that I am the murderer of William Brenton?"

  "Yes, I still believe that."

  "Very well; you may do as you please. I think, however, in justiceto myself, you should stay right here, and see that this box is nottampered with until the proper authorities, as you say, come."

  Then, placing his hand on the bell, he continued--"Whom shall I sendfor? An ordinary policeman, or some one from the central office? But,now that I think of it, here is a telephone. We can have any one broughthere that you wish. I prefer that neither you nor I leave this roomuntil that functionary has appeared. Name the authority you want broughthere," said the doctor, going to the telephone, "and I will have himhere if he is in town."

  The newspaper man was nonplussed. The Doctor's actions did not seem likethose of a guilty man. If he were guilty he certainly had more nervethan any person Stratton had ever met. So he hesitated. Then he said--

  "Sit down a moment, doctor, and let us talk this thing over."

  "Just as you say," remarked Roland, drawing up his chair again.

  Stratton took the package, and looked it over carefully. It wascertainly just in the condition in which it had left the drug store; butstill, that could have been easily done by the doctor himself.

  "Suppose we open this package?" he said to Roland.

  "With all my heart," said the doctor, "go ahead;" and he shoved over tohim a little penknife that was on the table.

  The reporter took the package, ran the knife around the edge, and openedit. There lay six capsules, filled, as the doctor had said. Rolandpicked up one of them, and looked at it critically.

  "I assure you," he said, "although
I am quite aware you do not believe aword I say, that I have not seen those capsules before."

  He drew towards him a piece of paper, opened the capsule, and, let thewhite powder fall on the paper. He looked critically at the powder, anda shade of astonishment came over his face. He picked up the penknife,took a particle on the tip of it, and touched it with his tongue.

  "Don't fool with that thing!" said Stratton.

  "Oh, my dear fellow," he said, "morphia is not a poison in smallquantities."

  The moment he had tasted it, however, he suddenly picked up the paper,put the five grains on his tongue, and swallowed them.

  Instantly the reporter sprang to his feet. He saw at once the reason forall the assumed coolness. The doctor was merely gaining time in order tocommit suicide.

  "What have you done?" cried the reporter.

  "Done, my dear fellow? nothing very much. This is not morphia; it issulphate of quinine."