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Turnbull and two Guaymas merchants had joined the group, but all were intent on those harbor lights now fast glimmering to mere sparks upon the sea, and the lonely girl sat there forgotten. Not once was voice uplifted in question as to what had become of her.
Monsieur Turnbull, I feel very much for you; but suppose a gentleman no lose his honour, what matter de money?" If a gentleman owe money to one rascally tradesfellow, and not pay him, dat no great matter; but he always pay de debt of honour. Every gentleman pay dat.
She said almost sharply and yet with evident sincerity: "Of course I am awfully grateful to you for all you've done and there's plenty of room if you'll come in." Turnbull, with the complete innocence of an absolutely sound motive, immediately jumped into the car; but the girl cast an eye at MacIan, who stood in the road for an instant as if rooted like a tree.
The swinging portals had slammed shut in the last plunge of the Idaho, and as the buoyant craft rose high on the next billow, Turnbull and Loring both turned to open them.
"How did you discover that?" he asked. "Dr. McLane and I took the handkerchief to a laboratory and the chemist found from the number of particles of capsules in the handkerchief, that at least two capsules or double the usual dose had been crushed by Turnbull and the fumes inhaled by him; with fatal results." "Hold on," cautioned Kent.
"Why, to me, of course," howled Turnbull, clenching his right fist and shaking it savagely at Leslie. "Keep that right hand of yours over your head," ordered Dick, sharply, again covering him with lightning-like rapidity. "That's right," he continued. "Now perhaps you will kindly tell me how it came to be yours." "Why, I got it off a former shipmate of mine," answered Turnbull.
Good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye. Enter Isobel. Isabel. Why, where's Mr Turnbull? He's gone. Isabel. Gone? Where? Henry. To the Rocky Mountains to shoot bears. Isobel. But he was HERE a moment ago. Henry. Yes, he's only JUST gone. Isobel. Why didn't he say good-bye? George, George, why didn't you speak? Enter George hurriedly.
Leaving him there Turnbull strode off for the doctor, whom he found at home. Explaining how he had found the body, he helped the doctor saddle his pony and bade him ride with all speed, requesting him to bring him word to 'The Crag' when he had recalled his patient to consciousness.
"Then, how the devil are we to get out?" cried Turnbull, losing his manners for the first time. "It is a question of time, of receptivity, and treatment," said the doctor, arching his eyebrows indifferently. "I do not regard either of your cases as incurable." And with that the man of the world was struck dumb, and, as in all intolerable moments, the word was with the unworldly.
"Do you mean to say that you think the murder of Turnbull was premeditated and not committed on the spur of the moment?" he asked. "The fact that aconitine was used convinces me of that," answered Kent. Ferguson thought a moment. "If that is the case," he said, grudgingly, "it sort of squashes the charge against Philip Rochester." "It would seem to," agreed Kent.
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