"because only by accident he is alive! The cook--my talented man--poured aside the cooled coffee and refilled Mr. Mannard's cup. And he has a fondness for tepid coffee, which I find strange. He went to drink the coffee Mr. Mannard had returned--and something had been added to it. More might remain in the cup. He told me instantly. There was no time to send a message. Mr. Mannard already had the cup in his hand. There was need for spectacular action. And I was watching the dinner-party, prepared to intervene in case of such need. I am an excellent marksman and there was nothing else to do, so I shot the cup from his hand."

Coghlan opened his mouth, managed to close it again. "You--shot the cup.... Who tried to poison him?"
Ghalil pulled a small glass bottle from his pocket. It was unstoppered, but there was a film of tiny crystals in it as if some liquid had dried.
"This," he observed, "fell from your pocket as you hunted in the brushwood for the marksman who actually was on the yacht. One of my men saw it fall and brought it to me. It is poison."
Coghlan looked at the bottle.
"I'm getting a little bit fed up with mystification. Do I get arrested?"
"The fingerprints upon it are smudged," said Ghalil. "But I am familiar with your fingerprints. They are not yours. It was slipped into your pocket--not fully, therefore it fell out. You do not get arrested."
"Thank you," said Coghlan, with irony.

His foot pushed aside one of the books on the floor beside Duval. They were of all sizes and thickness, and all were modern. Some had the heavy look of German technical books, and one or two were French. The greater number were in modern Greek.
"M. Duval searches history for references which might apply to our problem," said the Turk. "I consider this a very important affair. That, in particular--" he pointed to the wet spot on the wall--"seems to me most significant. I am very glad that you came here, with your special knowledge."
"Why? What do you want me to do?"
"Examine it," said Ghalil. "Explain it. Let me understand what it means. I have a wholly unreasonable suspicion I would not like to name, because it has only a logical basis."
"If you can make even a logical pattern out of this mess," said Coghlan bitterly, "you're a better man than I am. It simply doesn't make sense!"
Ghalil only looked at him expectantly. Coghlan went to the wet spot. It was almost exactly square, and there was no trace of moisture above it or on either side. Some few trickles dripped down from it, but the real wetness was specifically rectangular. Coghlan felt the wall all about it. Everywhere except in the wet spot the wall had the normal temperature of a plaster coating. The change of 

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