The Craig Poisoning Mystery (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

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      CHAPTER II

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      GUY HOUGHTON received his cousin's letter as he was finishing lunch. He opened and read it at once.

      He was a short, slender, rather ugly young man of around thirty, with a pleasant smile and merry blue eyes. Just now they stared at the letter before him in stupefaction.

      Ronald thought he was being poisoned! Ronald thought that that was why he was ill. Wanted to be fetched tomorrow around nine...without fuss...Lindrum and Match were all right...Good heavens t what' on earth was happening at Woodthorp?

      He jumped up so suddenly that the terrier, snoozing against his knee, gave a bark and then dived after him. Dogs adored Houghton. The master made for the telephone. A moment more, and he was speaking to his cousin, for Craig had an extension beside his bed.

      "That you, Ronnie?" Houghton asked. "I've just got your letter." His voice betrayed an effort to sound ordinary. "Look here, can't I run down to see you this afternoon? No? You don't feel up to it?" There was a moment's silence on his part as Craig replied, "Stick to the plan, Guy. Glad you got my letter."

      But Houghton had more to say. "I wish you'd post me at once that volume of Hakluyt's 'Voyages' you wrote about last week. One of an early edition, you remember? If you wrap it up well it won't get damaged, and I'll take the greatest care of it, and oh," he managed to make his voice sound really casual now, "why not slip into it that print you mentioned in the letter that I've just received. That—eh—first impression you found. Or, at any rate, a replica of it. Just in case it might get lost. As it's very interesting, quite amazingly so, I'd very much like to see it. Now, don't put off sending it, there's a good chap. Post it as soon as possible, will you? Without fail?"

      There was a second's silence, then Craig's answer reached him.

      "All right. Perhaps it might be as well. I'll post the book to you this afternoon. Come and see me sometime, Guy."

      "I may be passing quite soon," Houghton mentioned carelessly, and Craig's voice replied with a contented:

      "Good! Look in on me any time you're near here. By-by."

      Just before the receiver was hung up, Houghton's ear caught the sound of a door opening in Craig's room. He thought he heard a young, rather hard little voice saying:

      "Don't stop telephoning, Ronald. Or am I interrupting you? Is it anything very private?"

      Houghton frowned. He disliked the Russian girl intensely. Well, at any rate, Ronald now knew that the letter had arrived safely, and that he could count on him, Houghton, turning up to the minute tomorrow morning.

      And, meanwhile, that "part of a letter" which Craig wrote proved his suspicions, or at least a copy of it, would be safely on its way to town in a volume of the "Voyages." He ought to get it by tonight. What in the world could it be? Written by whom, and to whom? Houghton felt as though his head were whirling.

      First of all, he rang for his man and gave directions as to getting a room ready for Mr. Craig tomorrow morning. Mr. Craig would probably keep to his bed, he added, as he had got a slight chill in the country. Then he reached for the telephone directory. Ronald wanted no fuss. No, of course not—in the house of a relative, with his fiancée as the only other guest! But Houghton was determined to take down some authority on toxicology with him in the morning. Just whom? He sat awhile reflecting. He wanted a first-class man. But a discreet man...and not a man whose mere name would inform all Woodthorp what was feared. Then he had an inspiration.

      Houghton, who was a first-class bat, and played for his county, had met a Dr. Gilchrist more than once when the latter played for London University or the Hospitals. Gilchrist was a brilliant research worker in disease-antidotes, and Houghton remembered hearing that, by reason of his field of work, poisons were also his specialty. Houghton felt sure that if there were anything to be found out down at Woodthorp Manor, Gilchrist would find it. And yet his name would mean nothing sinister, not even to Lindrum.

      He rang Gilchrist up. The doctor was in his Richmond rooms. Would he be free, Houghton asked, to go down into the country tomorrow, Saturday, morning, on a very special case? As a consultant. He was free? Good. So that, supposing he were properly asked by the medical man in charge of the case, Gilchrist would do Houghton the great favor of coming down to look at a cousin whose illness seemed to be dragging on a bit long? Houghton went on to say that a very early consultation would be wanted, so perhaps СКАЧАТЬ