Kennedy thanked her and rose to go, preferring to say nothing more just then about the problems which vexed us in the Shirley case, lest it should make further investigation more difficult.
Nothing more had happened at the hotel, as we heard from Grady a few minutes later, and, as there was some time before the cult met, we returned to the laboratory.
Things had evidently progressed well, even in the few hours that he had been studying his meager evidence. Not only was he making a series of delicate chemical tests, but, in cases, he had several guinea-pigs which he was using also.
He now studied through a microscope some of the particles of dust from the vacuum cleaner.
“Little bits of glass,” he said, briefly, taking his eye from the eyepiece. “Captain Shirley was not shot.”
“Not shot?” I repeated. “Then how was he killed?”
Kennedy eyed me gravely.
“Shirley was murdered by a poisoned bomb!”
I said nothing, for the revelation was even more startling than I had imagined.
“In that package which was placed in his room,” he went on, “must have been a little infernal machine of glass, constructed so as to explode the moment the wrapper was broken. The flying pieces of glass injected the poison as by a myriad of hypodermic needles—the highly poisonous toxin of abrin, product of the jequirity, which is ordinarily destroyed in the stomach but acts powerfully if injected into the blood. Shirley died of jequirity poisoning, or rather of the alkaloid in the bean. It has been used in India for criminal poisoning for ages. Only, there it is crushed, worked into a paste, and rolled into needle-pointed forms which prick the skin. Abrin is composed of two albuminous bodies, one of which resembles snake-venom in all its effects, attacking the heart, making the temperature fall rapidly, and leaving the blood fluid after death. It is a vegetable toxin, quite comparable with ricin from the castor-oil bean.”
In spite of my horror at the diabolical plot that had been aimed at Shirley, my mind ran along, keenly endeavoring to piece together the scattered fragments of the case. Some one, of course, had sent the package while he was out and had it placed in his room. Had it been the same person who had sent the single jequirity bean? My mind instantly reverted to the strange woman across the hall, the photograph in his luggage, and the broken necklace in the jewel-case.
Kennedy continued looking at the remainder of the jequirity beans and a liquid he had developed from some of them. Finally, with a glance at his watch, he placed a tube of the liquid in a leather case in his pocket.
“This may not be the only murder,” he remarked, sententiously. “It is best to be prepared. Come; we must get up to that meeting.”
We journeyed up-town and arrived at the little private hall which the Cult of the Occult had hired somewhat ahead of the time set for the meeting, as Kennedy had aimed to do. Mrs. Rogers was already there and met us at the door.
“So glad to see you,” she welcomed, leading us in.
As we entered we could breathe the characteristic pervading odor of sandalwood. Rich Oriental hangings were on the walls, interspersed with cabalistic signs, while at one end was a raised dais.
Mrs. Rogers introduced us to a rather stout, middle-aged, sallow-faced individual in a turban and flowing robes of rustling purple silk. His eyes were piercing, small, and black. The plump, unhealthy, milk-white fingers of his hands were heavy with ornate rings. He looked like what I should have imagined a swami to be, and such, I found, was indeed his title.
“The Swami Rajmanandra,” introduced Mrs. Rogers.
He extended his flabby hand in welcome, while Kennedy eyed him keenly. We were not permitted many words with the swami, however, for Mrs. Rogers next presented us to a younger but no less interesting-looking Oriental who was in Occidental dress.
“This is Mr. Singh Bandematarain,” said Mrs. Rogers. “You know, he has been sent here by the nizam of his province to be educated at the university.”
Mrs. Rogers then hastened to conduct us to seats as, one by one, the worshipers entered. They were mostly women of the aristocratic type who evidently found in this cult a new fad to occupy their jaded craving for the sensational. In the dim light, there was something almost sepulchral about the gathering, and their complexions seemed as white as wax.
Again the door opened and another woman entered. I felt the pressure of Kennedy’s hand on my arm and turned my eyes unobtrusively. It was Mrs. Anthony.
Quietly she seemed to glide over the floor toward the swami and, for a moment, stood talking to him. I saw Singh eye her with a curious look. Was it fear or suspicion?
I had come expecting to see something weird and wild, perhaps the exhibition of an Indian fakir—I know not what. In that, at least, I was disappointed. The Swami Rajmanandra, picturesque though he was, talked most fascinatingly about his religion, but either the theatricals were reserved for an inner circle or else we were subtly suspected, for I soon found myself longing for the meeting to close so that we could observe those whom we had come to watch.
I had almost come to the conclusion that our mission had been a failure when the swami concluded and the visitors swarmed forward to talk with the holy man from the East. Kennedy managed to make his way about the circle to Mrs. Rogers and soon was in an animated conversation.
“Were you acquainted with a Captain Shirley?” he asked, finally, as she opened the way for the question by a remark about her life in Calcutta.
“Y-yes,” she replied, hesitating; “I read in the papers this morning that he was found dead, most mysteriously. Terrible, wasn’t it? Yes, I met him in Calcutta while I was there. Why, he was on his way to London, and came to New York and called on me.”
My eye followed the direction of Mrs. Rogers’s. She was talking to us, but really her attention was centered on Mrs. Anthony and the swami together. As I glanced back at her I caught sight of Singh, evidently engaged in watching the same two that I was. Did he have some suspicion of Mrs. Anthony? Why was he watching Mrs. Rogers? I determined to study the two women more closely. I saw that Kennedy had already noticed what I had seen.
“One very peculiar thing,” he said, deliberately modulating his voice so that it could be heard by those about us, “was that, just before he was killed, some one sent a prayer-bean from a necklace to him.”
At the mention of the necklace I saw that Mrs. Rogers was all attention. Involuntarily she shot a glance at Mrs. Anthony, as if she noted that she was not wearing the necklace now.
“Is that Englishwoman a member of the cult?” queried Kennedy, a moment later, as, quite naturally, he looked over at Mrs. Anthony. “Who is she?”
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Rogers, quickly, “she isn’t an Englishwoman at all. She is a Hindu—I believe, a former nautch-girl, daughter of a nautch-girl. She passes by the name of Mrs. Anthony, but really her name is Kalia Dass. Every one in Calcutta knew her.”
Kennedy quietly drew his card-case from his pocket and handed a card to Mrs. Rogers.
“I should like to talk to you about her some time,” he said, in a careful whisper. “If anything happens—don’t hesitate to call on me.”
Before Mrs. Rogers could recover from her surprise Kennedy had said good-by and we were on our way to the laboratory.
“That’s a curious situation,” I observed. “Can you make it out? How does Shirley fit into this thing?”
Craig hesitated a moment, as though debating whether to say anything, even to me, about his suspicions.
“Suppose,” he said, slowly, “that Shirley was a secret agent of the British government, charged with the mission of finding out whether Mrs. Rogers was contributing—unknowingly, perhaps—to hatching another Indian mutiny? Would that suggest anything to you?”
“And