"You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly.
"Quite sure, sir."
"Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over
the counter?"
The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown.
"Oh, no, sir--of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp
of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was
to poison a dog."
Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to
please "The Hall"--especially when it might result in custom
being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment.
"Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a
book?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so."
"Have you got the book here?"
"Yes, sir."
It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the
Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace.
Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called.
Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being
drawn around his neck?
The Coroner went straight to the point.
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