Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert
Mace, chemist's assistant.
It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the
Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified
pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop,
as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the
army.
These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business.
"Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized
person?"
"Yes, sir."
"When was this?"
"Last Monday night."
"Monday? Not Tuesday?"
"No, sir, Monday, the 16th."
"Will you tell us to whom you sold it?"
You could have heard a pin drop.
"Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp."
Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was
sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the
damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he
was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated,
although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose
on his face.
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