XXI

MERLE SHIRLEY OVERACTS

Appalled, I wondered who it was who had, to cover up one crime, committed another?  Who had struck down an innocent man to save a guilty neck?

Kennedy hurried to the side of the physician and I followed.

“What symptoms did you observe?” asked Kennedy, quickly, seeking confirmation of his own first impressions.

“His mouth seemed dry and I should say he suffered from a quick prostration.  There seemed to be a complete loss of power to swallow or speak.  The pupils were dilated as though from paralysis of the eyes.  Both pharynx and larynx were affected.  There was respiration paralysis.  It seemed also as though the cranial nerves were partially paralyzed.  It was typically a condition due to some toxic substance which paralyzed and depressed certain areas of the body.”

Kennedy nodded.  “That fits in with a theory I have.”

I thought quickly, then inquired; “Could it be the snake venom again?”

“No,” Kennedy replied, shaking his head; “there’s a difference in the symptoms and there is no mark on any exposed part of the body, as near as I could see in a superficial examination.”

He turned to the physician.  “Could you give me blood smears and some of the stomach contents, at once?  Twice, now, some one has been stricken down before the very eyes of the actors.  This thing has gone too far to trifle with or delay a moment.”

The doctor hurried off toward the dressing room, anxious to help Kennedy, and as excited, I thought, as any of us.  Next Kennedy faced me.

“Did you watch the people at all, Walter?”

“I—­I was too upset by the suddenness of it,” I stammered.

All seemed to have suspicion of some one else, and there was a general constraint, as though even the innocent feared to do or say something that might look or sound incriminating.

I turned.  All were now watching every move we made, though just yet none ventured to follow us.  It was as though they felt that to do so was like crossing a dead line.  I wondered which one of them might be looking at us with inward trepidation—­or perhaps satisfaction, if there had been any chance to remove anything incriminating.

Kennedy strode over toward the ill-fated set, Mackay and I at his heels.  As we moved across the floor I noticed that everyone clustered as close as he dared, afraid, seemingly, of any action which might hinder the investigation, yet unwilling to miss any detail of Kennedy’s method.  In contrast with the clamor and racket of less than a half hour previously there was now a deathlike stillness beneath the arched ground-glass roof.  The heat was more oppressive than ever before.  In the faces and expressions of the awed witnesses of death’s swift hand there was horror, and a growing fear.  No one spoke, except in whispers.  When anybody moved it was on tiptoe, cautiously.  Millard’s creation, “The Black Terror,” could have inspired no dread greater than this.