I got a letter from him suggesting that I should have a sham accident and claim hospitality.
He said he couldn’t put his reason in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first opportunity.”
“And did he explain?”
“No, he didn’t ...
I got there just before dinner. I didn’t see him alone.
At the end of dinner he - he died.” The weariness had gone out of Oliver’s manner.
His dark eyes were fixed on Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively the reactions aroused by his words.
“You’ve got this letter?”
“No, I tore it up.”
“A pity,” said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly. “And you said nothing to the police?”
“No, it all seemed - well, rather fantastic.”
“It is fantastic.”
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
Had Bartholomew Strange written such a letter?
It seemed highly uncharacteristic.
The story had a melodramatic touch most unlike the physician’s cheerful common sense. He looked up at the young man.
Oliver was still watching him.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “He’s looking to see if I swallow this story.”
He said, “And Sir Bartholomew gave absolutely no reason for his request?”
“None whatever.”
“An extraordinary story.”
Oliver did not speak.
“Yet you obeyed the summons?”
Something of the weary manner returned.
“Yes, it seemed refreshingly out of the way to a somewhat jaded palate. I was curious, I must confess.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“What do you mean, sir, anything else?”
Mr. Satterthwaite did not really know what he meant.
He was led by some obscure instinct.
“I mean,” he said, “is there anything else that might tell - against you?”
There was a pause. Then the young man shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of it.
The woman isn’t likely to hold her tongue about it.”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked a question.
“It was the morning after the murder stuff. I was talking to the Anthony Armstrong woman.
I took out my pocket-book and something fell out of it.
She picked it up and handed it back to me.”
“And this something?”
“Unfortunately she glanced at it before returning it to me.
It was a cutting from a newspaper about nicotine - what a deadly poison it was, and so on.”
“How did you come to have such an interest in the subject?”
“I didn’t.
I suppose I must have put that cutting in my wallet sometime or other, but I can’t remember doing so.
Bit awkward, eh?”
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “A thin story.”
“I suppose, went on Oliver Manders, she went to the police about it?”
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
“I don’t think so.
I fancy she’s a woman who likes - well, to keep things to herself.
She’s a collector of knowledge.”