Gilchrist did not add that, even so, the manor house would probably change its medical attendant.
"I must have the facts, however," he urged again, as the other said nothing. "The full facts."
Lindrum made a great effort and pulled himself together. Haltingly, but sufficiently dearly, he indicated the course of Craig's illness of now nearly four weeks, and the remedies given.
Gilchrist listened attentively, now nodded, now looked dubious and asked a question or two.
"Of course, I blame myself—now—" Lindrum broke out at the end, "for not having been more suspicious, but there's no one in the house but women. His own family! How could I suspect—" he almost implored.
"Granted your diagnosis, I don't think anyone can blame you for your treatment," Gilchrist said now. "Evidently, however, there's been foul play. You will, of course, as matters are, insist on an autopsy, and communicate the results, which will most certainly bear out what I've just said, to the police. You should come out all right if you carry things with a bold hand, and tackle them immediately. As you say, no one expects, or wants, their family doctor to be a suspicious criminologist."
Lindrum drew a paper from his pocket, it was the death certificate, and tore it across. "I had already signed it!" he murmured under his breath. "Well—I wonder where this will lead—how far—" He pulled up, and began to talk of the arrangements for the post mortem.
Meanwhile, Houghton had been joined in the library by Lady Craig.
"Guy"—she gave him a cool, beautifully manicured hand—"I'm thankful for this chance of seeing you alone. An awful thing has happened! Oh, not Ronald's death, that is only sad, but this is awful. Last night—before he died—he called out loud that he was dying of poison. Those were his words. Match was in the room and heard them. So did the nurse. Now, you know what that means—unless the doctor squashes it at once. But Bob Lindrum couldn't even squash a caterpillar!"
"Did Ronnie say anything about a paper he wanted to show me?" Houghton interrupted her without any ceremony.
"Paper? Do you mean a newspaper?" Lady Craig spoke after a second's pause, and after a rather startled glance.
"No. Not a newspaper," was Houghton's only answer.
"All sorts of letters of his are upstairs"—she spoke with seeming carelessness—"if it was a letter? Whom was it from?" Then, as he said nothing, she went on hurriedly. "But we can talk of papers later. The point now is this awful remark of Ronald's. He was rambling, of course. Quite out of his mind. But, with Match in the room as well as the nurse, how are we to deal with it?"
"I brought down a doctor with me from town for a consultation with Lindrum. As it happens, he's not only a specialist in tropical diseases, but an expert on poisons. Suppose we wait and hear what he has to say."
"You brought him down!" Lady Craig evidently bit back some remarks with difficulty. Houghton was now the owner of the manor house, and there were certain debatable points about some of the charges which she expected the estate to settle for her annually, that enjoined anyone of an economical nature to go warily—, and Emily Craig was very economical.
"I think that most uncalled for, Guy," she said finally. "What happened was that Ronald was wandering at the last. We know that, but it must be stated by the kind of person other people will have to believe. I don't know why on earth you brought an unknown medical man along. He's no good, socially. What we need—"
The door opened. The two doctors came into the room together. Lindrum was very pale, but seemed quite collected.
"Well, Bobby?" Lady Craig said, rising and going over to him, her whole face and manner friendly to the point of being maternal.
Houghton, too, took a step forward.
"I'm sorry to say I can't give a certificate," Lindrum said, glancing a little nervously from one to the other. "I—I—there must be an autopsy."
"Oh, surely not!" she said beseechingly, while Houghton turned and gave Gilchrist a long, inquiring look.
"It's unavoidable." Lindrum spoke with more assurance now. "I needn't tell you how frightfully sorry I am, Lady Craig. How I wish it could be avoided."
"You need not," she assured him coldly.
"But there's no other course open to me, as his medical man," he protested. "Dr. Gilchrist here—"
At this stage the man from London was introduced to the lady of the house, who welcomed him graciously, with a few words of regret that he had not been summoned earlier. Then she turned to Lindrum again.
"Why won't you give a death certificate?" she asked.
The young man hesitated. Then he said baldly: "I'm sorry to shock you both, but it looks now as if Craig had died of poison—of arsenic poison."
"How long has this been going on?" Houghton asked with a quiver in his voice. "This poisoning of Ronnie, I mean, Bob?"
Lindrum looked at him very unhappily. "Dr. Gilchrist and I think it must have been for some weeks. I can't tell you how sorry I am that I didn't guess what the matter was, but I didn't! I think it's possible that he was dosing himself with some patent medicine, or some old tonic, all the time without letting me know, and that the arsenic in it—supposing I'm right in my guess, of course—may have done the harm. Arsenic is cumulative, you know."
Houghton started to speak, but checked himself. The matter was too grave for hasty words. Nor were words of much account now.
The doctors excused themselves. They wanted to return to the bedroom for some further examinations and tests. Lindrum had the key in his pocket and now led the way upstairs again.
Once alone with him, Lady Craig turned on Houghton with fear- distended eyes.
"I can't believe it.. It isn't true!" She was not on guard now. Her face showed suddenly all its lines.
"Would to God I had got here sooner with Gilchrist," Houghton said bitterly. "I had a feeling last night that something was wrong. I half thought of rushing down here yesterday evening—"
"All the more need for us to get hold at once of some clever man who will be of use," she interrupted hastily. "The secretary of the Crime Revelers might be able to put us on to the right person—"
"We must get hold of the police at once," Houghton retorted, looking around for the telephone.
"Not first!" she urged. "Of course, if the doctors are right, it may have to come to that, though it's some mistake on Bob's or Agatha's part. But first of all we need—"
"The police," he finished firmly. "You see, I happen to be concerned with finding out the truth about Ronnie, not merely with having some smart amateur give your household a clean bill of health. I want the person who killed Ronnie to swing for the killing. I'll find out who did it, if it takes every penny of my own, as well as of his, money."
"For goodness' sake, don't tell that to whomever we decide to bring in!" Lady Craig said irritably. "Though, of course, it's nothing to do with me—financially, I mean. But that kind of man charges quite appallingly enough, as it is."
Houghton was not listening. He had got the number of the local police station, and now reached again for the instrument.
The door opened. It was Match.
"The chief constable is just coming up to the house, my lady. I know his car."
"Chief constable?" Houghton repeated. Lady Craig started.
"Yes, sir. I telephoned to him last night, or rather this morning, when Mr. Craig died. Just before you came."
"What do you mean?" Houghton asked bluntly.
"Mr. Craig