"But why should a young man who had invented a new method of polymerising isoprene, who was going to become wealthy, and was engaged to a beautiful young girl, commit suicide?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. It was evident that he, too, belonged to the "natural rubber set" which dominated Goodyear.
"I haven't looked into the case very deeply, but I'm not so sure that he had the secret, are you?"
Kennedy smiled. "That is what I'd like to know. I suppose that an expert like Mr. Borland could tell me, perhaps?"
"I should think so."
"Where is his office?" asked Craig. "Could you point it out to me from the window?"
Kennedy was standing by one of the windows of the doctor's office, and as he spoke he turned and drew a little field glass from his pocket. "Which end of the rubber works is it?"
Dr. Howe tried to direct him but Kennedy appeared unwarrantably obtuse, requiring the doctor to raise the window, and it was some moments before he got his glasses on the right spot.
Kennedy and I thanked the doctor for his courtesy and left the office.
We went at once to the office of Dr. Harris, to whom Winslow had also given us cards. We found him an anæmic man, half asleep. Kennedy tentatively suggested the murder of Cushing.
"Well, if you ask me my opinion," snapped out the doctor, "although I wasn't called into the case, from what I hear, I'd say that he was murdered."
