CHAPTER XIV

THE GOLDEN POMEGRANATES “What was it that he cried out?” demanded Nayland Smith abruptly. “I was in the sitting-room and it sounded to me like ‘pomegranates’!” We were bending over Lewison; for now, the wig removed, Lewison it proved unmistakably to be, despite the puffy and pallid face. “He said ‘the golden pomegranates,’” I replied, and laughed harshly. “They were words of delirium and cannot possibly have any bearing upon the manner of his death.” “I disagree.” He strode out into the sitting-room. Weymouth was b…