Part 33 (2/2)
Yes, please, a bit off the knuckle end.”
The concluding words were addressed to Winter, and Tomlinson started, for he was wrapped up in the scene Furneaux was depicting.
”That point of view had not occurred to me,” he admitted.
”You'll appreciate it fully when you see Mr. Fenley's murderer in the dock,” said Furneaux.
”Ah, sir. That brings your ill.u.s.tration home, indeed. But shall we ever know who killed him?”
”Certainly. Look at that high dome of intelligence glistening at you across the table. But that it is forbid to tell the secrets of the prison house, it could a tale unfold whose slightest word would harrow up thy soul----”
Harris, the footman, entered, carrying a decanter.
”Mr. Hilton Fenley's compliments, gentlemen, and will you try this port? He says Mr. Tomlinson will recommend it, because Mr. Fenley himself seldom takes wine. Mr. Fenley will not trouble you to meet him again this evening. Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Fenley wants you for a moment.”
The butler rose.
”That is the very wine I spoke of,” he said. ”If Mr. Hilton did not touch it, Mr. Robert evidently appreciated it.”
He glanced at Harris, but the footman did not even suspect that his character was at stake. The decanter was nearly full when placed on the sideboard; now it was half empty.
Singularly enough, both Winter and Furneaux had intercepted that questioning glance, and had acquitted Harris simultaneously.
”Are the gentlemen still in the dining-room?” inquired Winter.
”Mr. Hilton is there, sir, but Mr. Robert went out some time since.”
”Please convey our thanks to Mr. Hilton. I'm sure we shall enjoy the wine.”
When Tomlinson and Harris had gone, the eyes of the two detectives met. They said nothing at first, and it may be remembered that they were reputedly most dangerous to a pursued criminal when working together silently. Winter took the decanter, poured out a small quant.i.ty into two gla.s.ses, and gave Furneaux one. Then they smelled, and tasted, and examined the wine critically. The rich red liquid might have been a poisonous decoction for the care they devoted to its a.n.a.lysis.
Furneaux began.
”I have so many sleepless nights that I recognize bromide, no matter how it is disguised,” he murmured.
”Comparatively harmless, though a strong dose,” said Winter.
”If one has to swallow twenty grains or so of pota.s.sium bromide I can not conceive any pleasanter way of taking them than mixed with a sound port.”
Winter filled one of the gla.s.ses four times, pouring each amount into a tumbler. Furneaux looked into a cupboard, and found an empty beer bottle, which he rinsed with water. Meanwhile Winter was fas.h.i.+oning a funnel out of a torn envelope, and in a few seconds the tumblerful of wine was in the bottle, and the bottle in Winter's pocket. This done, the big man lit a cigar and the little one sniffed the smoke, which was his peculiar way of enjoying the weed.
”It was most thoughtful of Mr. Hilton Fenley to try and secure us a long night's uninterrupted sleep,” said Winter between puffs.
”But what a vitiated taste in wine he must attribute to Scotland Yard,” said Furneaux bitterly.
”Still, we should be grateful to him for supplying a gill of real evidence.”
”I may forgive him later. At present, I want to dilate his eyes with atropine, so that he may see weird shapes and be tortured of ghouls.”
<script>