I looked at him, aghast at what some of us had been rescued from by his prompt action.

“You see,” he went on, excitedly, “that is why the autopsies probably showed nothing.  These doctors down here sought for a poison in the stomach.  But if the poison had been in the stomach the odor alone would have betrayed it.  You smelt it when you crushed a seed.  But the poisoning had been devised to avoid just that chance of discovery.  There was no poison in the stomach.  Death was delayed long enough, also, to divert suspicion from the real poisoner.  Some one has been diabolically clever in covering up the crimes.”

I could only gasp my amazement.  “Then,” I blurted out, “you think the Ericksons—­”

Our door burst open.  It was Burke, in wild excitement.

“Has anybody—­died?” I managed to demand.

He seemed not to hear, but dashed to the window and threw it open.  “Look!” he exclaimed.

We did.  In the late twilight, through the open sash we could see the landlocked basin of the harbor.  But it was not that at which Burke pointed.  On the horizon an ugly dark cloud rose menacingly.  In the strange, unearthly murkiness, I could see people of the town pouring out into the narrow streets, wildly, fearfully, with frantic cries and gesticulations.

For a moment I gazed at the sight blankly.  Then I realized that sweeping on us was one of those sudden, deadly West-Indian hurricanes.  Our harbor was sheltered from the north and east winds.  But this wind was southern born, rare, oncoming in a fury against which we had no protection.

Hastily closing his armamentarium, Kennedy also hurried out on the street.  The gale had become terrific already in the few minutes that had elapsed.  From our terrace we could see the water, gray and olive, with huge white breakers, like gnashing teeth, coming on to rend and tear everything in their path.  It was as though we stood in an amphitheater provided by nature for a great spectacle, the bold headlands standing out like the curves of a stadium.

I looked about.  The Ericksons had just driven up with Burleigh and Leontine, as well as Whitson, all of whom were stopping at our hotel, and were about to take Sydney on to the consulate when the approach of the storm warned them to stay.

Leontine had hurried into the hotel, evidently fearful of the loss of something she treasured, and the rest were standing apart from the trees and buildings, where the formation of the land offered some protection.  As we joined them I peered at the pale faces in the ghastly, unnatural light.  Was it, in a sense, retribution?

Suddenly, without further warning, the storm broke.  Trees were turned up by roots, like weeds, the buildings rocked as if they had been houses of cards.  It was a wild, catastrophic spectacle.

“Leontine,” I heard a voice mutter by my side, as a form catapulted itself past through the murkiness into the crazily swaying hotel.  It was Burleigh.  I turned to speak to Kennedy.  He was gone.  Where to find him I had no idea.  The force of the wind was such that search was impossible.  All we could do was to huddle back of such protection as the earth afforded against the million needles of rain that cut into our faces.