"Poisoned cigarettes," he repeated slowly. "Well, who would ever
have thought it. You can bet your last jitney I'll be careful what
I smoke in the future, if I have to smoke only original packages.
And it was that, partly, that ailed Mendoza?"
Kennedy nodded. "Don't take any pilocarpine, just because I told
you that was what I used. You have given yourself the best
prescription, just now. Be careful what you smoke. And, don't get
excited if you seem to be stepping on matches up there in your
room for a little while, either. It's nothing."
Whitney's only known way of thanking anybody was to invite them to
adjourn to the cafe, and accordingly we started across the hall,
after he had gathered up his correspondence. The information had
made more work that night impossible for him.
As we crossed from the writing-room, we saw Alfonso de Moche
coming in from the street. He saw us and came over to speak. Was
it a coincidence, or was it merely a blind? Was he the one who had
got away and now calculated to come back and throw us off guard?
Whitney asked him where he had been, but he replied quickly that
his mother had not been feeling very well after dinner and had
gone to bed, while he strolled out and had dropped into a picture
show.
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