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Page 16
Paul Harley stood still, staring meditatively in the other's
direction. "There is not a scrap of evidence to support such a
theory," he admitted, "but if you knew of the existence of any
poisonous agent which would produce effects simulating these
familiar symptoms, I should be tempted to take certain steps."
"If you are talking about poisons," said the physician, a rather
startled look appearing upon his face, "there are several I might
mention; but the idea seems preposterous to me. Why should any
one want to harm Charley Abingdon? When could poison have been
administered and by whom?"
"When, indeed?" murmured Harley. "Yet I am not satisfied."
"You're not hinting at--suicide?"
"Emphatically no."
"What had he eaten?"
"Nothing but soup, except that he drank a portion of a glass of
water. I am wondering if he took anything at Mr. Wilson's house."
He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch. "It may surprise you to learn
that I have already taken steps to have the remains of the soup
from Sir Charles's plate examined, as well as the water in the
glass. I now propose to call upon Mr. Wilson in order that I may
complete this line of enquiry."
"I sympathize with your suspicions, Mr. Harley," said the
physician dourly, "but you are wasting your time." A touch of the
old acidity crept back into his manner. "My certificate will be
'syncope due to unusual excitement'; and I shall stand by it."
"You are quite entitled to your own opinion," Harley conceded,
"which if I were in your place would be my own. But what do you
make of the fact that Sir Charles received a bogus telephone
message some ten minutes before my arrival, as a result of which
he visited Mr. Wilson's house?"
"But he's attending Wilson," protested the physician.
"Nevertheless, no one there had telephoned. It was a ruse. I
don't assume for a moment that this ruse was purposeless."
Doctor McMurdoch was now staring hard at the speaker.
"You may also know," Harley continued, "that there was an
attempted burglary here less than a week ago."
"I know that," admitted the other, "but it counts for little.
There have been several burglaries in the neighbourhood of late."
Harley perceived that Doctor McMurdoch was one of those
characters, not uncommon north of the Tweed, who, if slow in
forming an opinion, once having done so cling to it as tightly as
any barnacle.
"You may be right and I may be wrong," Harley admitted, "but
while your professional business with Sir Charles unfortunately
is ended, mine is only beginning. May I count upon you to advise
me of Miss Abingdon's return? I particularly wish to see her, and
I should prefer to meet her in the capacity of a friend rather
than in that of a professional investigator."
"At the earliest moment that I can decently arrange a meeting,"
replied Doctor McMurdoch, "I will communicate with you, Mr.
Harley. I am just cudgelling my brains at the moment to think how
the news is to be broken to her. Poor little Phil! He was all she
had."
"I wish I could help you," declared Harley with sincerity, "but
in the circumstances any suggestion of mine would be mere
impertinence." He held out his hand to the doctor.
"Good-night," said the latter, gripping it heartily. "If there is
any mystery surrounding poor Abingdon's death, I believe you are
the man to clear it up. But, frankly, it was his heart. I believe
he had a touch of the sun once in India. Who knows? His idea that
some danger threatened him or threatened Phil may have been
merely--" He tapped his brow significantly.
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