Chapter I.
The Invalid

Looking back on events by the light of experience I perceive clearly that the thunder-cloud which burst on me and on those who were dear to me had not gathered unseen. It is true that it had rolled up swiftly; that the premonitory mutterings, now so distinct but then so faint and insignificant, gave but a brief warning. But that was of little consequence, since whatever warnings there were passed unheeded, as warnings commonly do, being susceptible of interpretation only by means of the subsequent events which they foreshadowed.

The opening scene of the tragedy—if I had but realized it—was the arrival of the Reverend Amos Monkhouse from his far-away Yorkshire parish at the house of his brother Harold. I happened to be there at the time; and though it was not my concern, since Harold had a secretary, I received the clergyman when he was announced. We knew one another well enough by name though we had never met, and it was with some interest and curiosity that I looked at the keen-faced, sturdy, energetic-looking parson and contrasted him with his physically frail and rather characterless brother. He looked at me, too, curiously and with a certain appearance of surprise, which did not diminish when I told him who I was.

“Ha!” said he, “yes. Mr. Mayfield. I am glad to have the opportunity of making your acquaintance. I have heard a good deal about you from Harold and Barbara. Now I can fit you with a visible personality. By the way, the maid tells me that Barbara is not at home.”

“No, she is away on her travels in Kent.”

“In Kent!” he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, on one of her political expeditions; organizing some sort of women’s emancipation movement. I daresay you have heard about it.”

He nodded a little impatiently. “Yes. Then I assume that Harold is not so ill as I had supposed?”

I was inclined to be evasive; for, to be quite candid, I had thought more than once that Barbara might properly have given a little less attention to her political hobbies and a little more to her sick husband. So I replied cautiously:

“I really don’t quite know what his condition is. You see, when a man has chronically bad health, one rather loses count. Harold has his ups and downs, but he always looks pretty poorly. Just now, I should say he is rather below his average.”

“Ha! Well, perhaps I had better go up and have a look at him. The maid has told him that I am here. I wonder if you would be so kind as to show me the way to his room. I have not been in this house before.”

I conducted him up to the door of the bedroom and then returned to the library to wait for him and hear what he thought of the invalid. And now that the question had been raised, I was not without a certain uneasiness. What I had said was true enough. When a man is always ailing one gets to take his ill-health for granted and to assume that it will go on without any significant change. One repeats the old saying of “the creaking gate” and perhaps makes unduly light of habitual illness. Might it be that Harold was being a little neglected? He had certainly looked bad enough when I had called on him that morning. Was it possible that he was really seriously ill? Perhaps in actual danger?

I had just asked myself this question when the door was opened abruptly and the clergyman strode into the room. Something in his expression—a mingling, as it seemed, of anger and alarm—rather startled me; nevertheless I asked him calmly enough how he found his brother. He stared at me, almost menacingly, for a second or two; then slowly and with harsh emphasis he replied: “I am shocked at the change in him. I am horrified. Why, good God, Sir! the man is dying!”

“I think that can hardly be,” I objected. “The doctor saw him this morning and did not hint at anything of the sort. He thought he was not very well but he made no suggestion as to there being any danger.”

“How long has the doctor been attending him?”

“For something like twenty years, I believe; so by this time he ought to understand the patient’s—”

“Tut-tut,” the parson interrupted, impatiently, “what did you say yourself but a few minutes ago? One loses count of the chronic invalid. He exhausts our attention until, at last, we fail to observe the obvious. What is wanted is a fresh eye. Can you give me the doctor’s address? Because, if you can, I will call on him and arrange a consultation. I told Harold that I wanted a second opinion and he made no objection; in fact he seemed rather relieved. If we get a really first-class physician, we may save him yet.”

“I think you are taking an unduly gloomy view of Harold’s condition,” said I. “At any rate, I hope so. But I entirely agree with you as to the advisability of having further advice. I know where Dr. Dimsdale lives so if you like I will walk round with you.”

He accepted my offer gladly and we set forth at once, walking briskly along the streets, each of us wrapped in thought and neither speaking for some time. Presently I ventured to remark:

“Strictly, I suppose, we ought to have consulted Barbara before seeking another opinion.”

“I don’t see why,” he replied. “Harold is a responsible person and has given his free consent. If Barbara is so little concerned about him as to go away from home—and for such a trumpery reason, too—I don’t see that we need consider her. Still, as a matter of common civility, I might as well send her a line. What is her present address?”

“Do you know,” I said, shamefacedly, “I am afraid I can’t tell you exactly where she is at the moment. Her permanent address, when she is away on these expeditions, is the head-quarters of the Women’s Friendship League at Maidstone.”

He stopped for a moment and glowered at me with an expression of sheer amazement. “Do you mean to tell me,” he exclaimed, “that she has gone away, leaving her husband in this condition, and that she is not even within reach of a telegram?”

“I have no doubt that a telegram or letter would be forwarded to her.”

He emitted an angry snort and then demanded:

“How long has she been away?”

“About a fortnight,” I admitted, reluctantly.

“A fortnight!” he repeated in angry astonishment. “And all that time beyond reach of communication! Why the man might have been dead and buried and she none the wiser!”

“He was much better when she went away,” I said, anxious to make the best of what I felt to be a rather bad case. “In fact, he seemed to be getting on quite nicely. It is only during the last few days that he has got this set-back. Of course, Barbara is kept informed as to his condition. Madeline sends her a letter every few days.”

“But, my dear Mr. Mayfield,” he expostulated, “just consider the state of affairs in this amazing household. I came to see my brother, expecting—from the brief letter that I had from him—to find him seriously ill. And I do find him seriously ill; dangerously ill, I should say. And what sort of care is being taken of him? His wife is away from home, amusing herself with her platform fooleries, and has left no practicable address. His secretary, or whatever you call him, Wallingford, is not at home. Madeline is, of course, occupied in her work at the school. Actually, the only person in the house besides the servants is yourself—a friend of the family but not a member of the household at all. You must admit that it is a most astonishing and scandalous state of affairs.”

I was saved from the necessity of answering this rather awkward question by our arrival at Dr. Dimsdale’s house; and, as it fortunately happened that the doctor was at home and disengaged, we were shown almost at once into his consulting room.

I knew Dr. Dimsdale quite well and rather liked him though I was not deeply impressed by his abilities. However, his professional skill was really no concern of mine, and his social qualities were unexceptionable. In appearance and manner he had always seemed to me the very type of a high-class general practitioner, and so he impressed me once more as we were ushered into his sanctum. He shook hands with me genially, and as I introduced the Reverend Amos looked at him with a politely questioning expression. But the clergyman lost no time in making clear the purpose of his visit; in fact he came to the point with almost brutal abruptness.

“I have just seen my brother for the first time for several months and I am profoundly shocked at his appearance. I expected to find him ill, but I did not understand that he was so ill as I find him.”

“No,” Dr. Dimsdale agreed, gravely, “I suppose not. You have caught him at a rather unfortunate time. He is certainly not so well to-day.”

“Well!” exclaimed Amos. “To me he has the look of a dying man. May I ask what, exactly, is the matter with him?”

The doctor heaved a patient sigh and put his fingertips together.

“The word ‘exactly,’ ” he replied, with a faint smile, “makes your question a little difficult to answer. There are so many things the matter with him. For the last twenty years, on and off, I have attended him, and during the whole of that time his health has been unsatisfactory—most unsatisfactory. His digestion has always been defective, his circulation feeble, he has had functional trouble with his heart, and throughout the winter months, more or less continuous respiratory troubles—nasal and pulmonary catarrh and sometimes rather severe bronchitis.”

The Reverend Amos nodded impatiently. “Quite so, quite so. But, to come from the past to the present, what is the matter with him now?”

“That,” the doctor replied suavely, “is what I was coming to. I mentioned the antecedents to account for the consequents. The complaints from which your brother has suffered in the past have been what are called functional complaints. But functional disease—if there really is such a thing—must, in the end, if it goes on long enough, develop into organic disease. Its effects are cumulative. Each slight illness leaves the bodily organs a little less fit.”

“Yes?”

“Well, that is, I fear, what is happening in your brother’s case. The functional illnesses of the past are tending to take on an organic character.”

“Ha!” snorted the Reverend Amos. “But what is his actual condition now? To put it bluntly, supposing he were to die to-night, what would you write on the death certificate?”

“Dear me!” said the doctor. “That is putting it very bluntly. I hope the occasion will not arise.”

“Still, I suppose you don’t regard his death as an impossible contingency?”

“Oh, by no means. Chronic illness confers no immortality, as I have just been pointing out.”

“Then, supposing his death to occur, what would you state to be the cause?”

Dr. Dimsdale’s habitual suavity showed a trace of diminution as he replied: “You are asking a very unusual and hardly admissible question, Mr. Monkhouse. However, I may say that if your brother were to die to-night he would die from some definite cause, which would be duly set forth in the certificate. As he is suffering from chronic gastritis, chronic bronchial catarrh, functional disorder of the heart and several other morbid conditions, these would be added as contributory causes. But may I ask what is the object of these very pointed questions?”

“My object,” replied Amos, “was to ascertain whether the circumstances justified a consultation. It seems to me that they do. I am extremely disturbed about my brother. Would you have any objection to meeting a consultant?”

“But not in the least. On the contrary, I should be very glad to talk over this rather indefinite case with an experienced physician who would come to it with a fresh eye. Of course, the patient’s consent would be necessary.”

“He has consented, and he agreed to the consultant whom I proposed—Sir Robert Detling—if you concurred.”

“I do certainly. I could suggest no better man. Shall I arrange with him or will you?”

“Perhaps I had better,” the parson replied, “as I know him fairly well. We were of the same year at Cambridge. I shall go straight on to him now and will let you know at once what arrangement he proposes.”

“Excellent,” said the doctor, rising with all his suavity restored. “I shall keep to-morrow as free as I can until I hear from you, and I hope he will be able to manage it so soon. I shall be glad to hear what he thinks of our patient, and I trust that the consultation may be helpful in the way of treatment.”

He shook our hands heartily and conducted us to the street door, whence he launched us safely into the street.

“That is a very suave gentleman,” Amos remarked as we turned away. “Quite reasonable, too; but you see for yourself that he has no real knowledge of the case. He couldn’t give the illness an intelligible name.”

“It seemed to me that he gave it a good many names, and it may well be that it is no more than he seems to think; a sort of collective illness, the resultant of the various complaints that he mentioned. However, we shall know more when Sir Robert has seen him; and meanwhile, I wouldn’t worry too much about the apparent neglect. Your brother, unlike most chronic invalids, doesn’t hanker for attention. He has all he wants and he likes to be left alone with his books. Shall you see him again to-day?”

“Assuredly. As soon as I have arranged matters with Detling I shall let Dr. Dimsdale know what we have settled and I shall then go back and spend the evening with my brother. Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow?”

“No. I have to run down to Bury St. Edmunds to-morrow morning and I shall probably be there three or four days. But I should very much like to hear what happens at the consultation. Could you send me a few lines? I shall be staying at the Angel.”

“I will certainly,” he replied, halting and raising his umbrella to signal an approaching omnibus. “Just a short note to let you know what Sir Robert has to tell us of poor Harold’s condition.”

He waved his hand, and stepping off the kerb, hopped on to the foot-board of the omnibus as it slowed down, and vanished into the interior. I stood for a few moments watching the receding vehicle, half inclined to go back and take another look at the sick man; but reflecting that his brother would be presently returning, I abandoned the idea and made my way instead to the Underground Railway station and there took a ticket for the Temple.

There is something markedly infectious in states of mind. Hitherto I had given comparatively little attention to Harold Monkhouse. He was a more or less chronic invalid, suffering now from one complaint and now from another, and evidently a source of no particular anxiety either to his friends or to his doctor. He was always pallid and sickly-looking, and if, on this particular morning, he had seemed to look more haggard and ghastly than usual, I had merely noted that he was “not so well to-day.”

But the appearance on the scene of the Reverend Amos had put a rather different complexion on the affair. His visit to his brother had resulted in a severe shock, which he had passed on to me; and I had to admit that our interview with Dr. Dimsdale had not been reassuring. For the fact which had emerged from it was that the doctor could not give the disease a name.

It was very disquieting. Supposing it should turn out that Harold was suffering from some grave, even some mortal disease, which ought to have been detected and dealt with months ago. How should we all feel? How, in particular, would Barbara feel about the easygoing way in which the illness had been allowed to drift on? It was an uncomfortable thought; and though Harold Monkhouse was really no concern of mine, excepting that he was Barbara’s husband, it continued to haunt me as I sat in the rumbling train and as I walked up from the Temple station to my chambers in Fig Tree Court.

Chapter II.
Barbara Monkhouse Comes Home

In the intervals of my business at Bury St. Edmunds I gave more than a passing thought to the man who was lying sick in the house in the quiet square at Kensington. It was not that I had any very deep feeling for him as a friend, though I liked him well enough. But the idea had got into my mind that he had perhaps been treated with something less than ordinary solicitude; that his illness had been allowed to drift on when possibly some effective measures might have been taken for his relief. And as it had never occurred to me to make any suggestions on the matter or to interest myself particularly in his condition, I was now inclined to regard myself as a party to the neglect, if there had really been any culpable failure of attention. I therefore awaited with some anxiety the letter which Amos had promised to send.

It was not until the morning of my third day at Bury that it arrived; and when I had opened and read it I found myself even less reassured than I had expected.

“Dear Mayfield,” it ran. “The consultation took place this afternoon and the result is, in my opinion, highly unsatisfactory. Sir Robert is, at present, unable to say definitely what is the matter with Harold. He states that he finds the case extremely obscure and reserves his opinion until the blood-films and other specimens which he took, have been examined and reported on by an expert pathologist. But on one point he is perfectly clear. He regards Harold’s condition as extremely grave—even critical—and he advised me to send a telegram to Barbara insisting on her immediate return home. Which I have done; and only hope it may reach her in the course of the day.

That is all I have to tell you and I think you will agree that it is not an encouraging report. Medical science must be in a very backward state if two qualified practitioners—one of them an eminent physician—cannot between them muster enough professional knowledge to say what is the matter with a desperately sick man. However, I hope that we shall have a diagnosis by the time you come back.

Yours sincerely,

Amos Monkhouse.”

I could not but agree, in the main, that my clerical friend’s rather gloomy view was justified, though I thought that he was a trifle unfair to the doctors, especially to Sir Robert. Probably a less scientific practitioner, who would have given the condition some sort of name, would have been more satisfying to the parson. Meanwhile, I allowed myself to build on “the blood-films and other specimens” hopes of a definite discovery which might point the way to some effective treatment.

I despatched my business by the following evening and returned to London by the night train, arriving at my chambers shortly before midnight. With some eagerness I emptied the letter-cage in the hope of finding a note from Amos or Barbara; but there was none, although there were one or two letters from solicitors which required to be dealt with at once. I read these through and considered their contents while I was undressing, deciding to get up early and reply to them so that I might have the forenoon free; and this resolution I carried out so effectively that by ten o’clock in the morning I had breakfasted, answered and posted the letters, and was on my way westward in an Inner Circle train.

It was but a few minutes’ walk from South Kensington Station to Hilborough Square and I covered the short distance more quickly than usual. Turning into the square, I walked along the pavement on the garden side, according to my habit, until I was nearly opposite the house. Then I turned to cross the road and as I did so, looked up at the house. And at the first glance I stopped short and stared in dismay: for the blinds were lowered in all the windows. For a couple of seconds I stood and gazed at this ominous spectacle; then I hurried across the road and, instinctively avoiding the knocker, gave a gentle pull at the bell.

The door was opened by the housemaid, who looked at me somewhat strangely but admitted me without a word and shut the door softly behind me. I glanced at her set face and asked in a low voice:

“Why are all the blinds down, Mabel?”

“Didn’t you know, Sir?” she replied, almost in a whisper. “It’s the master—Mr. Monkhouse. He passed away in the night. I found him dead when I went in this morning to draw up the blinds and give him his early tea.”

I gazed at the girl in consternation, and after a pause she continued:

“It gave me an awful turn, Sir, for I didn’t see, at first, what had happened. He was lying just as he usually did, and looked as if he had gone to sleep, reading. He had a book in his hand, resting on the counterpane, and I could see that his candle-lamp had burned itself right out. I put his tea on the bedside table and spoke to him, and when he didn’t answer I spoke again a little louder. And then I noticed that he was perfectly still and looked even paler and more yellow than usual and I began to feel nervous about him. So I touched his hand; and it was as cold as stone and as stiff as a wooden hand. Then I felt sure he must be dead and I ran away and told Miss Norris.”

“Miss Norris!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Sir. Mrs. Monkhouse only got home about an hour ago. She was fearfully upset when she found she was too late. Miss Norris is with her now, but I expect she’ll be awfully glad you’ve come. She was asking where you were. Shall I tell her you are here?”

“If you please, Mabel,” I replied; and as the girl retired up the stairs with a stealthy, funereal tread, I backed into the open doorway of the dining room (avoiding the library, in case Wallingford should be there) where I remained until Mabel returned with a message asking me to go up.

I think I have seldom felt more uncomfortable than I did as I walked slowly and softly up the stairs. The worst had happened—at least, so I thought—and we all stood condemned; but Barbara most of all. I tried to prepare some comforting, condolent phrases, but could think of nothing but the unexplainable, inexcusable fact that Barbara had of her own choice and for her own purposes, gone away leaving a sick husband and had come back to find him dead.

As I entered the pleasant little boudoir—now gloomy enough, with its lowered blinds—the two women rose from the settee on which they had been sitting together, and Barbara came forward to meet me, holding out both her hands.

“Rupert!” she exclaimed, “how good of you! But it is like you to be here just when we have need of you.” She took both my hands and continued, looking rather wildly into my face: “Isn’t it an awful thing? Poor, poor Harold! So patient and uncomplaining! And I so neglectful, so callous! I shall never, never forgive myself. I have been a selfish, egotistical brute.”

“We are all to blame,” I said, since I could not honestly dispute her self-accusations; “and Dr. Dimsdale not the least. Harold has been the victim of his own patience. Does Amos know?”

“Yes,” answered Madeline, “I sent him a telegram at half-past eight. I should have sent you one, too, but I didn’t know that you had come back.”

There followed a slightly awkward silence during which I reflected with some discomfort on the impending arrival of the dead man’s brother, which might occur at any moment. It promised to be a somewhat unpleasant incident, for Amos alone had gauged the gravity of his brother’s condition, and he was an outspoken man. I only hoped that he would not be too outspoken.

The almost embarrassing silence was broken by Barbara, who asked in a low voice: “Will you go and see him, Rupert?” and added: “You know the way and I expect you would rather go alone.”

I said “yes” as I judged that she did not wish to come with me, and, walking out of the room, took my way along the corridor to the well-remembered door, at which I halted for a moment, with an unreasonable impulse to knock, and then entered. A solemn dimness pervaded the room, with its lowered blinds, and an unusual silence seemed to brood over it. But everything was clearly visible in the faint, diffused light—the furniture, the pictures on the walls, the bookshelves and the ghostly shape upon the bed, half-revealed through the sheet which had been laid over it.

Softly, I drew back the sheet, and the vague shape became a man; or rather, as it seemed, a waxen effigy, with something in its aspect at once strange and familiar. The features were those of Harold Monkhouse, but yet the face was not quite the face that I had known. So it has always seemed to me with the dead. They have their own distinctive character which belongs to no living man—the physiognomy of death; impassive, expressionless, immovable; fixed for ever, or at least, until the changes of the tomb shall obliterate even its semblance of humanity.

I stepped back a pace and looked thoughtfully at the dead man who had slipped so quietly out of the land of the living. There he lay, stretched out in an easy, restful posture, just as I had often seen him; the eyes half-closed and one long, thin arm lying on the counterpane, the waxen hand lightly grasping the open volume; looking—save for the stony immobility—as he might if he had fallen asleep over his book. It was not surprising that the housemaid had been deceived, for the surroundings all tended to support the illusion. The bedside table with its pathetic little provisions for a sick man’s needs: the hooded candle-lamp, drawn to the table-edge and turned to light the book; the little decanter of brandy, the unused tumbler, the water-bottle, the watch, still ticking in its upright case, the candle-box, two or three spare volumes and the hand-bell for night use; all spoke of illness and repose with never a hint of death.

There was nothing by which I could judge when he had died. I touched his arm and found it rigid as an iron bar. So Mabel had found it some hours earlier, whence I inferred that death had occurred not much past midnight. But the doctors would be able to form a better opinion, if it should seem necessary to form any opinion at all. More to the point than the exact time of death was the exact cause. I recalled the blunt question that Amos had put to Dr. Dimsdale and the almost indignant tone in which the latter had put it aside. That was less than a week ago; and now that question had to be answered in unequivocal terms. I found myself wondering what the politic and plausible Dimsdale would put on the death certificate and whether he would seek Sir Robert Detling’s collaboration in the execution of that document.

I was about to replace the sheet when my ear caught the footsteps of some one approaching on tip-toe along the corridor. The next moment the door opened softly and Amos stole into the room. He passed me with a silent greeting and drew near the bed, beside which he halted with his hand laid on the dead hand and his eyes fixed gloomily on the yellowish-white, impassive face. He spoke no word, nor did I presume to disturb this solemn meeting and farewell, but silently slipped out into the corridor where I waited for him to come out.

Two or three minutes passed, during which I heard him, once or twice, moving softly about the room and judged that he was examining the surroundings amidst which his brother had passed the last few weeks of his life. Presently he came out, closing the door noiselessly behind him, and joined me opposite the window. I looked a little nervously into the stern, grief-stricken face, and as he did not speak, I said, lamely enough:

“This is a grievous and terrible thing, Mr. Monkhouse.” He shook his head gravely. “Grievous indeed; and the more so if one suspects, as I do, that it need not have happened. However, he is gone and recriminations will not bring him back.”

“No,” I agreed, profoundly relieved and a little surprised at his tone; “whatever we may feel or think, reproaches and bitter words will bring no remedy. Have you seen Barbara?”

“No; and I think I won’t—this morning. In a day or two, I hope I shall be able to meet and speak to her as a Christian man should. To-day I am not sure of myself. You will let me know what arrangements are made about the funeral?”

I promised that I would, and walked with him to the head of the stairs, and when I had watched him descend and heard the street door close, I went back to Barbara’s little sitting-room.

I found her alone, and, when I entered she was standing before a miniature that hung on the wall. She looked round as I entered and I saw that she still looked rather dazed and strange. Her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping but they were now tearless, and she seemed calmer than when I had first seen her. I went to her side, and for a few moments we stood silently regarding the smiling, girlish face that looked out at us from the miniature. It was that of Barbara’s step-sister, a very sweet, loveable girl, little more than a child, who had died some four years previously, and who, I had sometimes thought, was the only human creature for whom Barbara had felt a really deep affection. The miniature had been painted from a photograph after her death and a narrow plait of her gorgeous, red-gold hair had been carried round inside the frame.

“Poor little Stella!” Barbara murmured. “I have been asking myself if I neglected her, too. I often left her for days at a time.”

“You mustn’t be morbid, Barbara,” I said. “The poor child was very well looked after and as happy as she could be made. And nobody could have done any more for her. Rapid consumption is beyond the resources of medical science at present.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” She was silent for a while. Then she said: “I wonder if anything could have been done for Harold. Do you think it possible that he might have been saved?”

“I know of no reason for thinking so, and now that he is gone I see no use in raising the question.”

She drew closer to me and slipped her hand into mine.

“You will be with us as much as you can, Rupert, won’t you? We always look to you in trouble or difficulty, and you have never failed us. Even now you don’t condemn me, whatever you may think.”

“No, I blame myself for not being more alert, though it was really Dimsdale who misled us all. Has Madeline gone to the school?”

“Yes. She had to give a lecture or demonstration, but I hope she will manage to get a day or two off duty. I don’t want to be left alone with poor Tony. It sounds unkind to say so, for no one could be more devoted to me than he is. But he is so terribly high-strung. Just now, he is in an almost hysterical state. I suppose you haven’t seen him this morning?”

“No. I came straight up to you.” I had, in fact, kept out of his way, for, to speak the truth, I did not much care for Anthony Wallingford. He was of a type that I dislike rather intensely; nervous, high-strung, emotional and in an incessant state of purposeless bustle. I did not like his appearance, his manners or his dress. I resented the abject fawning way in which he followed Barbara about, and I disapproved of his position in this house; which was nominally that of secretary to Barbara’s husband, but actually that of tame cat and generally useless hanger-on. I think I was on the point of making some disparaging comments on him, but at that moment there came a gentle tap at the door and the subject of my thoughts entered.

I was rather sorry that Barbara was still holding my hand. Of course, the circumstances were very exceptional, but I have an Englishman’s dislike of emotional demonstrations in the presence of third parties. Nevertheless, Wallingford’s behaviour filled me with amazed resentment. He stopped short with a face black as thunder, and, after a brief, insolent stare, muttered that he “was afraid he was intruding” and walked out of the room, closing the door sharply after him.

Barbara flushed (and I daresay I did, too), but made no outward sign of annoyance. “You see what I mean,” she said. “The poor fellow is quite unstrung. He is an added anxiety instead of a help.”

“I see that plainly enough,” I replied, “but I don’t see why he is unstrung, or why an unstrung man should behave like an ill-mannered child. At any rate, he will have to pull himself together. There is a good deal to be done and he will have to do some of it. I may assume, I suppose, that it will be his duty to carry out the instructions of the executors?”

“I suppose so. But you know more about such things than I do.”

“Then I had better go down and explain the position to him and set him to work. Presently I must call on Mr. Brodribb, the other executor, and let him know what has happened. But meanwhile there are certain things which have to be done at once. You understand?”

“Yes, indeed. You mean arrangements for the funeral. How horrible it sounds! I can’t realize it yet. It is all so shocking and so sudden and unlooked-for. It seems like some dreadful dream.”

“Well, Barbara,” I said gently, “you shan’t be troubled more than is unavoidable. I will see to all the domestic affairs and leave the legal business to Brodribb. But I shall want Wallingford’s help, and I think I had better go down and see him now.”

“Very well, Rupert,” she replied with a sigh. “I shall lean on you now as I always have done in times of trouble and difficulty, and you must try to imagine how grateful I am since I can find no words to tell you.”

She pressed my hand and released me, and I took my way down to the library with a strong distaste for my mission.

That distaste was not lessened when I opened the door and was met by a reek of cigarette smoke. Wallingford was sitting huddled up in an easy chair, but as I entered, he sprang to his feet and stood facing me with a sort of hostile apprehensiveness. The man was certainly unstrung; in fact he was on wires. His pale, haggard face twitched, his hands trembled visibly and his limbs were in constant, fidgety movement. But, to me, there seemed to be no mystery about his condition. The deep yellow stains on his fingers, the reek in the air and a pile of cigarette-ends in an ash-bowl were enough to account for a good deal of nervous derangement, even if there were nothing more—no drugs or drink.

I opened the business quietly, explaining what had to be done and what help I should require from him. At first he showed a tendency to dispute my authority and treat me as an outsider, but I soon made the position and powers of an executor clear to him. When I had brought him to heel I gave him a set of written instructions the following-out of which would keep him fairly busy for the rest of the day; and having set the dismal preparations going, I went forth from the house of mourning and took my way to New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, where were the offices of Mr. Brodribb, the family solicitor and my co-executor.

Chapter III.
A Shock for the Mourners

It was on the day of the funeral that the faint, unheeded mutterings of the approaching storm began to swell into audible and threatening rumblings, though, even then, the ominous signs failed to deliver their full significance.

How well do I recall the scene in the darkened dining room where we sat in our sable raiment, “ready to wenden on our pilgrimage” to the place of everlasting rest and eternal farewell. There were but four of us, for Amos Monkhouse had not yet arrived, though it was within a few minutes of the appointed time to start; quite a small party; for the deceased had but few relatives, and no outsiders had been bidden.

We were all rather silent. Intimate as we were, there was no need to make conversation. Each, no doubt, was busy with his or her own thoughts, and as I recall my own they seem to have been rather trivial and not very suitable to the occasion. Now and again I stole a look at Barbara and thought what a fine, handsome woman she was, and dimly wondered why, in all the years that I had known her, I had never fallen in love with her. Yet so it was. I had always admired her; we had been intimate friends, with a certain amount of quiet affection, but nothing more—at any rate on my part. Of her I was not so sure. There had been a time, some years before, when I had had an uneasy feeling that she looked to me for something more than friendship. But she was always a reticent girl; very self-reliant and self-contained. I never knew a woman better able to keep her own counsel or control her emotions.

She was now quite herself again; quiet, dignified, rather reserved and even a little inscrutable. Seated between Wallingford and Madeline, she seemed unconscious of either and quite undisturbed by the secretary’s incessant nervous fidgeting and by his ill-concealed efforts to bring himself to her notice.

From Barbara my glance turned to the woman who sat by her side, noting with dull interest the contrast between the two; a contrast as marked in their bearing as in their appearance. For whereas Barbara was a rather big woman, dark in colouring, quiet and resolute in manner, Madeline Norris was somewhat small and slight, almost delicately fair, rather shy and retiring, but yet with a suggestion of mental alertness under the diffident manner. If Barbara gave an impression of quiet strength, Madeline’s pretty, refined face was rather expressive of subtle intelligence. But what chiefly impressed me at this moment was the curious inversion of their attitudes towards the existing circumstances; for whereas Barbara, the person mainly affected, maintained a quiet, untroubled demeanour, Madeline appeared to be overcome by the sudden catastrophe. Looking at her set, white face and the dismay in her wide, grey eyes, and comparing her with the woman at her side, a stranger would at once have assumed the bereavement to be hers.

My observations were interrupted by Wallingford once more dragging out his watch.

“What on earth can have happened to Mr. Amos?” he exclaimed. “We are due to start in three minutes. If he isn’t here by then we shall have to start without him. It is perfectly scandalous! Positively indecent! But there, it’s just like a parson.”

“My experience of parsons,” said I, “is that they are, as a rule, scrupulously punctual. But certainly, Mr. Amos is unpardonably late. It will be very awkward if he doesn’t arrive in time. Ah, there he is,” I added as the bell rang and a muffled knock at the street door was heard.

At the sound, Wallingford sprang up as if the bell had actuated a hidden spring in the chair, and darted over to the window, from which he peered out through the chink beside the blind.

“It isn’t Amos,” he reported. “It’s a stranger, and a fool at that, I should say, if he can’t see that all the blinds are down.”

We all listened intently. We heard the housemaid’s hurried footsteps, though she ran on tip-toe; the door opened softly, and then, after an interval, we heard some one ushered along the hall to the drawing room. A few moments later, Mabel entered with an obviously scandalized air.

“A gentleman wishes to speak to you, Ma’am,” she announced.

“But, Mabel,” said Barbara, “did you tell him what is happening in this house?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I explained exactly how things were and told him that he must call to-morrow. But he said that his business was urgent and that he must see you at once.”

“Very well,” said Barbara. “I will go and see what he wants. But it is very extraordinary.”

She rose, and nearly colliding with Wallingford, who had rushed to open the door—which was, in fact, wide open—walked out quickly, closing the door after her. After a short interval—during which Wallingford paced the room excitedly, peered out of the window, sat down, got up again and looked at his watch—she came back, and, standing in the doorway, looked at me.

“Would you come here for a minute, Rupert,” she said, quietly.

I rose at once and walked back with her to the drawing room, on entering which I became aware of a large man, standing monumentally on the hearth-rug and inspecting the interior of his hat. He looked to me like a plainclothes policeman, and my surmise was verified by a printed card which he presented and which bore the inscription “Sergeant J. Burton.”

“I am acting as coroner’s officer,” he explained in reply to my interrogatory glance, “and I have come to notify you that the funeral will have to be postponed as the coroner has decided to hold an inquest. I have seen the undertakers and explained matters to them.”

“Do you know what reason there is for an inquest?” I asked. “The cause of death was certified in the regular way.”

“I know nothing beyond my instructions, which were to notify Mrs. Monkhouse that the funeral is put off and to serve the summonses for the witnesses. I may as well do that now.”

With this he laid on the table six small blue papers, which I saw were addressed respectively to Barbara, Madeline, Wallingford, the housemaid, the cook and myself.

“Have you no idea at all why an inquest is to be held?” I asked as I gathered up the papers.

“I have no information,” he replied, cautiously, “but I expect there is some doubt about the exact cause of death. The certificate may not be quite clear or it may be that some interested party has communicated with the coroner. That is what usually happens, you know, Sir. But at any rate,” he added, cheerfully, “you will know all about it the day after to-morrow, which, you will observe, is the day fixed for the inquest.”

“And what have we to do meanwhile?” Barbara asked. “The inquest will not be held in this house, I presume.”

“Certainly not, Madam,” the sergeant replied. “A hearse will be sent round to-night to remove the body to the mortuary, where the post mortem examination will be carried out, and the inquest will be held in the parish hall, as is stated on the summons. I am sorry that you should be put to this inconvenience,” he concluded, moving tentatively towards the door, “but—er—it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. Good morning, Madam.”

I walked with him to the door and let him out, while Barbara waited for me in the hall, not unobserved by Wallingford, whose eye appeared in a chink beside the slightly open dining room door. I pointedly led her back into the drawing room and closed the door audibly behind us. She turned a pale and rather shocked face to me but she spoke quite composedly as she asked:

“What do you make of it, Rupert? Is it Amos?”

I had already reluctantly decided that it must be. I say, reluctantly, because, if this were really his doing, the resigned tone of his last words to me would appear no less than sheer, gross hypocrisy.

“I don’t know who else it could be,” I answered. “The fact that he did not come this morning suggests that he at least knew what was happening. If he did, I think he might have warned us.”

“Yes, indeed. It will be a horrid scandal; most unpleasant for us all, and especially for me. Not that I am entitled to any sympathy. Poor Harold! How he would have hated the thought of a public fuss over his dead body. I suppose we must go in now and tell the others. Do you mind telling them, Rupert?”

We crossed the hall to the dining room where we found the two waiting impatiently, Madeline very pale and agitated while Wallingford was pacing the room like a wild beast. Both looked at us with eager interrogation as we entered, and I made the announcement bluntly and in a dozen words.

The effect on both was electrical. Madeline, with a little cry of horror, sank, white-faced and trembling, into a chair. As for Wallingford, his behaviour was positively maniacal. After staring at me for a few moments with starting eyes and mouth agape, he flung up his arms and uttered a hoarse shout.

“This,” he yelled, “is the doing of that accursed parson! Now we know why he kept out of the way—and it is well for him that he did!”

He clenched his fists and glared around him, showing his tobacco-stained teeth in a furious snarl while the sweat gathered in beads on his livid face. Then, suddenly, his mood changed and he dropped heavily on a chair, burying his face in his shaking hands. Barbara admonished him, quietly.

“Do try to be calm, Tony. There is nothing to get so excited about. It is all very unpleasant and humiliating, of course, but at any rate you are not affected. It is I who will be called to account.”

“And do you suppose that doesn’t affect me?” demanded Wallingford, now almost on the verge of tears.

“I am sure it does, Tony,” she replied, gently, “but if you want to be helpful to me you will try to be calm and reasonable. Come, now,” she added, persuasively, “let us put it away for the present. I must tell the servants. Then we had better have lunch and go our several ways to think the matter over quietly each of us alone. We shall only agitate one another if we remain together.”

I agreed emphatically with this sensible suggestion. “Not,” I added, “that there is much for us to think over. The explanations will have to come from Dimsdale. It was he who failed to grasp the seriousness of poor Harold’s condition.”

While Barbara was absent, breaking the news to the servants, I tried to bring Madeline to a more composed frame of mind. With Wallingford I had no patience. Men should leave hysterics to the other sex. But I was sorry for Madeline; and even if she seemed more overwhelmed by the sudden complications than the occasion justified, I told myself that the blow had fallen when she was already shaken by Harold’s unexpected death.

The luncheon was a silent and comfortless function; indeed it was little more than an empty form. But it had the merit of brevity. When the last dish had been sent away almost intact, Wallingford drew out his cigarette case and we all rose.

“What are you going to do, Madeline?” Barbara asked.

“I must go to the school, I suppose, and let the secretary know that—that I may have to be absent for a day or two. It will be horrid. I shall have to tell him all about it—after having got leave for the funeral. But it will sound so strange, so extraordinary. Oh! It is horrible!”

“It is!” exclaimed Wallingford, fumbling with tremulous fingers at his cigarette case. “It is diabolical! A fiendish plot to disgrace and humiliate us. As to that infernal parson, I should like—”

“Never mind that, Tony,” said Barbara; “and we had better not stay here, working up one another’s emotions. What are you doing, Rupert?”

“I shall go to my chambers and clear off some correspondence.”

“Then you might walk part of the way with Madeline and see if you can’t make her mind a little more easy.”

Madeline looked at me eagerly. “Will you, Rupert?” she asked.

Of course I assented, and a few minutes later we set forth together.

For a while she walked by my side in silence with an air of deep reflection, and I refrained from interrupting her thoughts, having no very clear idea as to what I should say to her. Moreover, my own mind was pretty busily occupied. Presently she spoke, in a tentative way, as if opening a discussion.

“I am afraid you must think me very weak and silly to be so much upset by this new trouble.”

“Indeed, I don’t,” I replied. “It is a most disturbing and humiliating affair and it will be intensely unpleasant for us all, but especially for Barbara—to say nothing of Dimsdale.”

“Dr. Dimsdale is not our concern,” said she, “but it will be perfectly horrible for Barbara. For she really has been rather casual, poor girl, and they are sure to make things unpleasant for her. It will be a most horrid scandal. Don’t you think so?”

To be candid, I did. Indeed, I had just been picturing to myself the possibilities with an officious coroner—and he would not need to be so very officious, either—and one or two cross-grained jurymen. Barbara might be subjected to a very unpleasant examination. But I did not think it necessary to say this to Madeline. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. I contented myself with a vague agreement.

There was another interval of silence. Then, a little to my surprise, she drew closer to me, and, slipping her hand under my arm, said very earnestly: “Rupert, I want you to tell me what you really think. What is it all about?”

I looked down, rather disconcerted, into the face that was turned up to me so appealingly; and suddenly—and rather irrelevantly—it was borne in on me that it was a singularly sweet and charming face. I had never quite realized it before. But then she had never before looked at me quite in this way; with this trustful, coaxing, appealing expression.

“I don’t quite understand you, Madeline,” I said, evasively. “I know no more about it than you do.”

“Oh, but you do, Rupert. You are a lawyer and you have had a lot of experience. You must have formed some opinion as to why they have decided to hold an inquest. Do tell me what you think.”

The coaxing, almost wheedling tone, and the entreaty in her eyes, looking so earnestly into mine, nearly conquered my reserve. But not quite. Once more I temporized.

“Well, Madeline, we all realize that what Dimsdale has written on the certificate is little more than a guess, and quite possibly wrong; and even Detling couldn’t get much farther.”

“Yes, I realize that. But I didn’t think that inquests were held just to find out whether the doctors’ opinions were correct or not.”

Of course she was perfectly right; and I now perceived that her thoughts had been travelling along the same lines as my own. An inquest would not be held merely to clear up an obscure diagnosis. There was certainly something more behind this affair than Dimsdale’s failure to recognize the exact nature of the illness. There was only one simple explanation of the coroner’s action, and I gave it—with a strong suspicion that it was not the right one.

“They are not, as a rule, excepting in hospitals. But this is a special case. Amos Monkhouse was obviously dissatisfied with Dimsdale, and with Barbara, too. He may have challenged the death certificate and asked for an inquest. The coroner would be hardly likely to refuse, especially if there were a hint of negligence or malpractice.”

“Did Mr. Amos say anything to you that makes you think he may have challenged the certificate?”

“He said very little to me at all,” I replied, rather casuistically and suppressing the fact that Amos had explicitly accepted the actual circumstances and deprecated any kind of recrimination.

“I can hardly believe that he would have done it,” said Madeline, “just to punish Barbara and Dr. Dimsdale. It would be so vindictive, especially for a clergyman.”

“Clergymen are very human sometimes,” I rejoined; and, as, rather to my relief, we now came in sight of Madeline’s destination, I adverted to the interview which she seemed to dread so much. “There is no occasion for you to go into details with the secretary,” I said. “In fact you can’t. The exact cause of death was not clear to the doctors and it has been considered advisable to hold an inquest. That is all you know, and it is enough. You are summoned as a witness and you are legally bound to attend, so you are asking no favour. Cut the interview dead short, and when you have done with it, try, like a sensible girl, to forget the inquest for the present. I shall come over to-morrow and then we can reconstitute the history of the case, so that we may go into the witness-box, or its equivalent, with a clear idea of what we have to tell. And now, good-bye, or rather au revoir!”

“Good-bye, Rupert.” She took my proffered hand and held it as she thanked me for walking with her. “Do you know, Rupert,” she added, “there is something strangely comforting and reassuring about you. We all feel it. You seem to carry an atmosphere of quiet strength and security. I don’t wonder that Barbara is so fond of you. Not,” she concluded, “that she holds a monopoly.”

With this she let go my hand, and, with a slightly shy smile and the faintest suspicion of a blush, turned away and walked quickly and with an air quite cheerful and composed towards the gateway of the institution. Apparently, my society had had a beneficial effect on her nervous condition.

I watched her until she disappeared into the entry, and then resumed my journey eastward, rather relieved, I fear, at having disposed of my companion. For I wanted to think—of her among other matters; and it was she who first occupied my cogitations. The change from her usual matter-of-fact friendliness had rather taken me by surprise; and I had to admit that it was not a disagreeable surprise. But what was the explanation? Was this intimate, clinging manner merely a passing phase due to an emotional upset, or was it that the special circumstances had allowed feelings hitherto concealed to come to the surface? It was an interesting question, but one that time alone could answer; and as there were other questions, equally interesting and more urgent, I consigned this one to the future and turned to consider the others.

What could be the meaning of this inquest? The supposition that Amos had suddenly turned vindictive and resolved to expose the neglect, to which he probably attributed his brother’s death, I could not entertain, especially after what he had said to me. It would have written him down the rankest of hypocrites. And yet he was in some way connected with the affair as was proved by his failure to appear at the funeral. As to the idea that the inquiry was merely to elucidate the nature of the illness, that was quite untenable. A private autopsy would have been the proper procedure for that purpose.

I was still turning the question over in my mind when, as I passed the Griffin at Temple Bar, I became aware of a tall figure some distance ahead walking in the same direction. The build of the man and his long, swinging stride seemed familiar. I looked at him more attentively; and just as he turned to enter Devereux Court I recognized him definitely as a fellow Templar named Thorndyke.

The chance encounter seemed a singularly fortunate one, and at once I quickened my pace to overtake him. For Dr. Thorndyke was a medical barrister and admittedly the greatest living authority on medical jurisprudence. The whole subject of inquests and Coroners’ Law was an open book to him. But he was not only a lawyer. He had, I understood, a professional and very thorough knowledge of pathology and of the science of medicine in general, so that he was the very man to enlighten me in my present difficulties.

I overtook him at the Little Gate of the Middle Temple and we walked through together into New Court. I wasted no time, but, after the preliminary greetings, asked him if he had a few minutes to spare. He replied, in his quiet, genial way: “But, of course, Mayfield. I always have a few minutes to spare for a friend and a colleague.”

I thanked him for the gracious reply, and, as we slowly descended the steps and sauntered across Fountain Court, I opened the matter without preamble and gave him a condensed summary of the case; to which he listened with close attention and evidently with keen interest.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that your family doctor will cut rather a poor figure. He seems to have mismanaged the case rather badly, to judge by the fact that the death of the patient took him quite by surprise. By the way, can you give me any idea of the symptoms—as observed by yourself, I mean?”

“I have told you what was on the certificate.”

“Yes. But the certified cause of death appears to be contested. You saw the patient pretty often, I understand. Now what sort of appearance did he present to you?”

The question rather surprised me. Dimsdale’s opinion might not be worth much, but the casual and inexpert observations of a layman would have seemed to me to be worth nothing at all. However, I tried to recall such details as I could remember of poor Monkhouse’s appearance and his own comments on his condition and recounted them to Thorndyke with such amplifications as his questions elicited. “But,” I concluded, “the real question is, who has set the coroner in motion and with what object?”

“That question,” said Thorndyke, “will be answered the day after to-morrow, and there is not much utility in trying to guess at the answer in advance. The real question is whether any arrangements ought to be made in the interests of your friends. We are quite in the dark as to what may occur in the course of the inquest.”

“Yes, I had thought of that. Some one ought to be present to represent Mrs. Monkhouse. I suppose it would not be possible for you to attend to watch the case on her behalf?”

“I don’t think it would be advisable,” he replied. “You will be present and could claim to represent Mrs. Monkhouse so far as might be necessary to prevent improper questions being put to her. But I do think that you should have a complete record of all that takes place. I would suggest that I send Holman, who does most of my shorthand reporting, with instructions to make a verbatim report of the entire proceedings. It may turn out to be quite unnecessary; but if any complications should arise, we shall have the complete depositions with the added advantage that you will have been present and will have heard all the evidence. How will that suit you?”

“If you think it is the best plan there is nothing more to say, excepting to thank you for your help.”

“And give me a written note of the time and place to hand to Holman when I give him his instructions.”

I complied with this request at once; and having by this time reached the end of the Terrace, I shook hands with him and walked slowly back to my chambers in Fig Tree Court. I had not got much out of Thorndyke excepting a very useful suggestion and some valuable help; indeed, as I turned over his extremely cautious utterances and speculated on what he meant by “complications,” I found myself rather more uncomfortably puzzled than I had been before I met him.

Chapter IV.
“How, When and Where—”

It was on the second day after the interrupted funeral that the thunderbolt fell. I cannot say that it found me entirely unprepared, for my reflections during the intervening day had filled me with forebodings; and by Thorndyke the catastrophe was pretty plainly foreseen. But on the others the blow fell with devastating effect. However, I must not anticipate. Rather let me get back to a consecutive narration of the actual events.

On the day after the visit of the coroner’s officer we had held, at my suggestion, a sort of family committee to consider what we knew of the circumstances and antecedents of Harold’s death, so that we might be in a position to give our evidence clearly and readily and be in agreement as to the leading facts. Thus we went to the coroner’s court prepared, at least, to tell an intelligible and consistent story.

As soon as I entered the large room in which the inquest was to be held, my forebodings deepened. The row of expectant reporters was such as one does not find where the proceedings are to be no more than a simple, routine inquiry. Something of public interest was anticipated, and these gentlemen of the Press had received a hint from some well-informed quarter. I ran my eye along the row and was somewhat relieved to observe Mr. Holman, Thorndyke’s private reporter, seated at the table with a large note-book and a half-dozen well-sharpened pencils before him. His presence—as, in a sense, Thorndyke’s deputy—gave me the reassuring feeling that, if there were to be “complications,” I should not have to meet them with my own limited knowledge and experience, but that there were reserves of special knowledge and weighty counsel on which I could fall back.

The coroner’s manner seemed to me ominous. His introductory address to the jury was curt and ambiguous, setting forth no more than the name of the deceased and the fact that circumstances had seemed to render an inquiry advisable; and having said this, he proceeded forthwith (the jury having already viewed the body) to call the first witness, the Reverend Amos Monkhouse.

I need not repeat the clergyman’s evidence in detail. When he had identified the body as that of his brother, Harold, he went on to relate the events which I have recorded: his visit to his sick brother, his alarm at the patient’s appearance, his call upon Dr. Dimsdale and his subsequent interview with Sir Robert Detling. It was all told in a very concise, matter-of-fact manner, and I noted that the coroner did not seek to amplify the condensed statement by any questions.

“At about nine o’clock in the morning of the 13th,” the witness continued, “I received a telegram from Miss Norris informing me that my brother had died in the night. I went out at once and sent a telegram to Sir Robert Detling informing him of what had happened. I then went to number 16 Hilborough Square, where I saw the body of deceased lying in his bed quite cold and stiff. I saw nobody at the house excepting the housemaid and Mr. Mayfield. After leaving the house I walked about the streets for several hours and did not return to my hotel until late in the afternoon. When I arrived there, I found awaiting me a telegram from Sir Robert Detling asking me to call on him without delay. I set forth at once and arrived at Sir Robert’s house at half-past five, and was shown into his study immediately. Sir Robert then told me that he had come to the conclusion that the circumstances of my brother’s death called for some investigation and that he proposed to communicate with the coroner. He urged me not to raise any objections and advised me to say nothing to any one but to wait until the coroner’s decision was made known. I asked him for his reasons for communicating with the coroner, but he said that he would rather not make any statement. I heard no more until the morning of the fifteenth, the day appointed for the funeral, when the coroner’s officer called at my hotel to inform me that the funeral would not take place and to serve the summons for my attendance here as a witness.”

When Amos had concluded his statement, the coroner glanced at the jury, and as no one offered to put any questions, he dismissed the witness and called the next—Mabel Withers—who, at once, came forward to the table. Having been sworn and having given her name, the witness deposed that she had been housemaid to deceased and that it was she who had discovered the fact of his death, relating the circumstances in much the same words as I have recorded. When she had finished her narrative, the coroner said: “You have told us that the candle in the deceased’s lamp was completely burnt out. Do you happen to know how long one of those candles would burn?”

“Yes. About four hours.”

“When did you last see deceased alive?”

“At half-past ten on Tuesday night, the twelfth. I looked in at his room on my way up to bed to see if he wanted anything, and I gave him a dose of medicine.”

“What was his condition then?”

“He looked very ill, but he seemed fairly comfortable. He had a book in his hand but was not reading.”

“Was the candle alight then?”

“No, the gas was alight. I asked him if I should turn it out but he said ‘no.’ He would wait until Miss Norris or Mr. Wallingford came.”

“Did you notice how much candle there was in the lamp then?”

“There was a whole candle. I put it in myself in the afternoon and it had not been lit. He used to read by the gas as long as it was alight. He only used the candle-lamp if he couldn’t sleep and the gas was out.”

“Could you form any opinion as to how long the candle had been burnt out?”

“It must have been out some time, for there was no smell in the room as there would have been if it had only been out a short time. The window was hardly open at all; only just a small crack.”

“Do you know when deceased last took food?”

“Yes, he had his supper at eight o’clock; an omelette and a tiny piece of toast with a glass of milk.”

“Who cooked the omelette?”

“Miss Norris.”

“Why did Miss Norris cook it? Was the cook out?”

“No. But Miss Norris usually cooked his supper and sometimes made little dishes for his lunch. She is a very expert cook.”

“Who took the omelette up to deceased?”

“Miss Norris. I asked if I should take his supper up, but she said she was going up and would take it herself.”

“Was any one else present when Miss Norris was cooking the omelette?”

“Yes, I was present and so was the cook.”

“Did deceased usually have the same food as the rest of the household?”

“No, he usually had his own special diet.”

“Who prepared his food, as a rule?”

“Sometimes the cook, but more often Miss Norris.”

“Now, with regard to his medicine. Did deceased usually take it himself?”

“No, he didn’t like to have the bottle on the bedside table, as it was rather crowded with his books and things. The bottle and the medicine-glass were kept on the mantelpiece and the medicine was given to him by whoever happened to be in the room when a dose was due. Sometimes I gave it to him; at other times Mrs. Monkhouse or Miss Norris or Mr. Wallingford.”

“Do you remember when the last bottle of medicine came?”

“Yes. It came early in the afternoon of the day before he died. I took it in and carried it up at once.”

When he had written down this answer, the coroner ran his eye through his previous notes and then glanced at the jury.

“Do any of you gentlemen wish to ask the witness any questions?” he enquired; and as no one answered, he dismissed the witness with the request that she would stay in the court in case any further testimony should be required of her. He then announced that he would take the evidence of Sir Robert Detling next in order to release him for his probably numerous engagements. Sir Robert’s name was accordingly called and a grave-looking, elderly gentleman rose from near the doorway and walked up to the table. When the new witness had been sworn and the formal preliminaries disposed of, the coroner said:

“I will ask you, Sir Robert, to give the jury an account of the circumstances which led to your making a certain communication to me.”

Sir Robert bowed gravely and proceeded at once to make his statement in the clear, precise manner of a practised speaker.

“On Friday, the 8th instant, the Reverend Amos Monkhouse called on me to arrange a consultation with Dr. Dimsdale who was in attendance on his brother, the deceased. I met Dr. Dimsdale by appointment the following afternoon, the 9th, and with him made a careful examination of deceased. I was extremely puzzled by the patient’s condition. He was obviously very seriously—I thought, dangerously—ill, but I was unable to discover any signs or symptoms that satisfactorily accounted for his grave general condition. I could not give his disease a name. Eventually, I took a number of blood-films and some specimens of the secretions to submit to a pathologist for examination and to have them tested for micro-organisms. I took them that night to Professor Garnett’s laboratory, but the professor was unfortunately absent and not returning until the following night—Sunday. I therefore kept them until Sunday night when I took them to him and asked him to examine them with as little delay as possible. He reported on the following day that microscopical examination had not brought to light anything abnormal, but he was making cultures from the secretions and would report the result on Wednesday morning. On Wednesday morning at about half-past nine, I received a telegram from the Reverend Amos Monkhouse informing me that his brother had died during the night. A few minutes later, a messenger brought Professor Garnett’s report; which was to the effect that no disease-bearing organisms had been found, nor anything abnormal excepting a rather singular scarcity of micro-organisms of any kind.

“This fact, together with the death of the patient, suddenly aroused my suspicions. For the absence of the ordinary micro-organisms suggested the presence of some foreign chemical substance. And now, as I recalled the patient’s symptoms, I found them consistent with the presence in the body of some foreign substance. Instantly, I made my way to Professor Garnett’s laboratory and communicated my suspicions to him. I found that he shared them and had carefully preserved the remainder of the material for further examination. We both suspected the presence of a foreign substance, and we both suspected it to be arsenic.

“The professor had at hand the means of making a chemical test, so we proceeded at once to use them. The test that we employed was the one known as Reinsch’s test. The result showed a very appreciable amount of arsenic in the secretions tested. On this, I sealed up what was left of the specimens, and, after notifying Mr. Monkhouse of my intention, reported the circumstances to the coroner.”

When Sir Robert ceased speaking, the coroner bowed, and having written down the last words, reflected for a few moments. Then he turned to the jury and said: “I don’t think we need detain Sir Robert any longer unless there are any questions that you would like to ask.”

At this point the usual over-intelligent juryman interposed.

“We should like to know whether the vessels in which the specimens were contained were perfectly clean and free from chemicals.”

“The bottles,” Sir Robert replied, “were clean in the ordinary sense. I rinsed them out with clean water before introducing the material. But, of course, they could not be guaranteed to be chemically clean.”

“Then doesn’t that invalidate the analysis?” the juror asked.

“It was hardly an analysis,” the witness replied. “It was just a preliminary test.”

“The point which you are raising, Sir,” said the coroner, “is quite a sound one but it is not relevant to this inquiry. Sir Robert’s test was made to ascertain if an inquiry was necessary. He decided that it was, and we are now holding that inquiry. You will not form your verdict on the results of Sir Robert’s test but on those of the post mortem examination and the special analysis that has been made.”

This explanation appeared to satisfy the juror and Sir Robert was allowed to depart. The coroner once more seemed to consider awhile and then addressed the jury.

“I think it will be best to take next the evidence relating to the examination of the body. When you have heard that you will be better able to weigh the significance of what the other witnesses have to tell us. We will now take the evidence of Dr. Randall.”

As the new witness, a small, dry, eminently professional-looking man, stepped briskly up to the table, I stole a quick, rather furtive glance at my companions and saw my own alarm plainly reflected in their faces and bearing. Barbara, on my left hand, sat up stiffly, rigid as a statue, her face pale and set, but quite composed, her eyes fixed on the man who was about to be sworn. Madeline, on my right, was ghastly. But she, too, was still and quiet, sitting with her hands tightly clasped, as if to restrain or conceal their trembling, and her eyes bent on the floor. As to Wallingford, who sat on the other side of Barbara, I could not see his face, but by his foot, which I could see and hear, tapping quickly on the floor as if he were working a spinning-wheel, and his incessantly moving hands, I judged that his nerves were at full tension.

The new witness deposed that his name was Walter Randall, that he was a Bachelor of Medicine and police surgeon of the district and that he had made a careful examination of the body of deceased and that, with Dr. Barnes, he had made an analysis of certain parts of that body.

“To anticipate a little,” said the coroner, “did you arrive at an opinion as to the cause of death?”

“Yes. From the post mortem examination and the analysis taken together, I came to the conclusion that deceased died from the effects of arsenic poisoning.”

“Have you any doubt that arsenic poisoning was really the cause of the deceased’s death?”

“No, I have no doubt whatever.”

The reply, uttered with quiet decision, elicited a low murmur from the jury and the few spectators, amidst which I heard Madeline gasp in a choking whisper, “Oh! God!” and even Barbara was moved to a low cry of horror. But I did not dare to look at either of them. As for me, the blow had fallen already. Sir Robert’s evidence had told me all.

“You said,” the coroner resumed, “that the post mortem and the analysis, taken together, led you to this conclusion. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant that the appearance of the internal organs, taken alone, would not have been conclusive. The conditions that I found were suggestive of arsenic poisoning but might possibly have been due to disease. It was only the ascertained presence of arsenic that converted the probability into certainty.”

“You are quite sure that the conditions were not due to disease?”

“Not entirely. I would rather say that the effects of arsenical poisoning were added to and mingled with those of old-standing disease.”

“Would you tell us briefly what abnormal conditions you found?”

“The most important were those in the stomach, which showed marked signs of inflammation.”

“You are aware that the death certificate gives old-standing chronic gastritis as one of the causes of death?”

“Yes, and I think correctly. The arsenical gastritis was engrafted on an already existing chronic gastritis. That is what made the appearances rather difficult to interpret, especially as the post mortem appearances in arsenical poisoning are extraordinarily variable.”

“What else did you find?”

“There were no other conditions that were directly associated with the poison. The heart was rather fatty and dilated, and its condition probably accounts for the sudden collapse which seems to have occurred.”

“Does not collapse usually occur in poisoning by arsenic?”

“Eventually it does, but it is usually the last of a long train of symptoms. In some cases, however, collapse occurs quite early and may carry the victim off at once. That is what appears from the housemaid’s evidence to have happened in this case. Death seems to have been sudden and almost peaceful.”

“Were there any other signs of disease?”

“Yes, the lungs were affected. There were signs of considerable bronchial catarrh, but I do not regard this as having any connection with the effects of the poison. It appeared to be an old-standing condition.”

“Yes,” said the coroner. “The certificate mentions chronic bronchial catarrh of several years’ standing. Did you find any arsenic in the stomach?”

“Not in the solid form and only a little more than a hundredth of a grain altogether. The stomach was practically empty. The other organs were practically free from disease, excepting, perhaps, the kidneys, which were congested but not organically diseased.”

“And as to the amount of arsenic present?”

“The analysis was necessarily a rather hasty one and probably shows less than the actual quantity; but we found, as I have said, just over a hundredth of a grain in the stomach, one and a half grains in the liver, nearly a fifth of a grain in the kidneys and small quantities, amounting in all to two grains, in the blood and tissues. The total amount actually found was thus a little over three and a half grains—a lethal dose.”

“What is the fatal dose of arsenic?”

“Two grains may prove fatal if taken in solution, as it appears to have been in this case. Two and a half grains, in a couple of ounces of fly-paper water, killed a strong, healthy girl of nineteen in thirty-six hours.”

“And how long does a poisonous dose take to produce death?”

“The shortest period recorded is twenty minutes, the longest, over three weeks.”

“Did you come to any general conclusion as to how long deceased had been suffering from the effects of arsenic and as to the manner in which it had been administered?”

“From the distribution of the poison in the organs and tissues and from the appearance of the body, I inferred that the administration of arsenic had been going on for a considerable time. There were signs of chronic poisoning which led me to believe that for quite a long time—perhaps months—deceased had been taking repeated small doses of the poison, and that the final dose took such rapid effect by reason of the enfeebled state of the deceased at the time when it was administered.”

“And as to the mode of administration? Did you ascertain that?”

“In part, I ascertained it quite definitely. When the bearers went to the house to fetch the body, I accompanied them and took the opportunity to examine the bedroom. There I found on the mantelpiece a bottle of medicine with the name of deceased on the label and brought it away with me. It was an eight ounce bottle containing when full eight doses, of which only one had been taken. Dr. Barnes and I, together, analyzed the remaining seven ounces of the medicine and obtained from it just over eleven grains of arsenic; that is a fraction over a grain and a half in each ounce dose. The arsenic was in solution and had been introduced into the medicine in the form of the solution known officially as Liquor Arsenicalis, or Fowler’s Solution.”

“That is perfectly definite,” said the coroner. “But you said that you ascertained the mode of administration in part. Do you mean that you inferred the existence of some other vehicle?”

“Yes. A single dose of this medicine contained only a grain and a half of arsenic, which would hardly account for the effects produced or the amount of arsenic which was found in the body. Of course, the preceding dose from the other bottle may have contained the poison, too, or it may have been taken in some other way.”

“What other way do you suggest?”

“I can merely suggest possibilities. A meal was taken about eight o’clock. If that meal had contained a small quantity of arsenic—even a single grain—that, added to what was in the medicine, would have been enough to cause death. But there is no evidence whatever that the food did contain arsenic.”

“If the previous dose of medicine had contained the same quantity of the poison as the one that was last taken, would that account for the death of deceased?”

“Yes. He would then have taken over three grains in four hours—more than the minimum fatal dose.”

“Did you see the other—the empty medicine bottle?”

“No. I looked for it and should have taken possession of it, but it was not there.”

“Is there anything else that you have to tell us concerning your examination?”

“No, I think I have told you all I know about the case.”

The coroner cast an interrogatory glance at the jury, and when none of them accepted the implied invitation, he released the witness and named Dr. Barnes as his successor.

I need not record in detail the evidence of this witness. Having deposed that he was a Doctor of Science and lecturer on Chemistry at St. Martha’s Medical College, he proceeded to confirm Dr. Randall’s evidence as to the analysis, giving somewhat fuller and more precise details. He had been present at the autopsy, but he was not a pathologist and was not competent to describe the condition of the body. He had analyzed the contents of the medicine bottle with Dr. Randall’s assistance and he confirmed the last witness’s statement as to the quantity of arsenic found and the form in which it had been introduced—Fowler’s Solution.

“What is the strength of Fowler’s Solution?”

“It contains four grains of arsenic—or, more strictly, of arsenious acid—to the fluid ounce. So that, as the full bottle of medicine must have contained just over twelve and a half grains of arsenious acid, the quantity of Fowler’s Solution introduced must have been a little over three fluid ounces; three point fourteen, to be exact.”

“You are confident that it was Fowler’s Solution that was used?”

“Yes; the chemical analysis showed that; but in addition, there was the colour and the smell. Fowler’s Solution is coloured red with Red Sandalwood and scented with Tincture of Lavender as a precaution against accidents. Otherwise it would be colourless, odourless and tasteless, like water.”

On the conclusion of Dr. Barnes’s evidence, the coroner remarked to the jury: “I think we ought to be clear on the facts with regard to this medicine. Let Mabel Withers be recalled.”

Once more the housemaid took her place by the table and the coroner resumed the examination.

“You say that the last bottle of medicine came early in the afternoon. Can you tell us the exact time?”

“It was about a quarter to three. I remember that because when I took up the new bottle, I asked Mr. Monkhouse if he had had his medicine and he said that his brother, Mr. Amos Monkhouse, had given him a dose at two o’clock just before he left.”

“Did you open the fresh bottle?”

“I took off the paper wrapping and the cap but I didn’t take the cork out.”

“Was the old bottle empty then?”

“No; there was one dose left in it. That would be due at six o’clock.”

“Do you know what became of the old bottle?”

“Yes. When I had given him his last dose—that was out of the new bottle—I took the old bottle away and washed it at once.”

“Why did you wash the bottle?”

“The used medicine bottles were always washed and sent back to Dr. Dimsdale.”

“Did you send back the corks, too?”

“No, the corks were usually burned in the rubbish destructor.”

“Do you know what happened to this particular cork?”

“I took it down with me in the morning and dropped it in the bin which was kept for the rubbish to be taken out to the destructor. The cork must have been burned with the other rubbish the same day.”

“When you gave deceased that last dose of medicine from the new bottle, did you notice anything unusual about it? Any smell, for instance?”

“I noticed a very faint smell of lavender. But that was not unusual. His medicine often smelt of lavender.”

“Do you know if the previous bottle of medicine smelt of lavender?”

“Yes, it did. I noticed it when I was washing out the bottle.”

“That, gentlemen,” said the coroner, as he wrote down the answer, “is a very important fact. You will notice that it bears out Dr. Randall’s opinion that more than one dose of the poison had been given; that, in fact, a number of repeated small doses had been administered. And, so far as we can see at present, the medicine was, at least, the principal medium of its administration. The next problem that we have to solve is how the poison got into the medicine. If none of you wish to put any questions to the very intelligent witness whom we have just been examining, I think we had better call Dr. Dimsdale and hear what he has to tell us.”

The jury had no questions to put to Mabel but were manifestly all agog to hear Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence. The housemaid was accordingly sent back to her seat, and the doctor stepped briskly—almost too briskly, I thought—up to the table.

Chapter V.
Madeline’s Ordeal

I was rather sorry for Dimsdale. His position was a very disagreeable one and he fully realized it. His patient had been poisoned before his very eyes and he had never suspected even grave illness. In a sense, the death of Harold Monkhouse lay at his door and it was pretty certain that every one present would hold him accountable for the disaster. Indeed, it was likely that he would receive less than justice. Those who judged him would hardly stop to reflect on the extraordinary difficulties that beset a busy medical man whose patient is being secretly poisoned; would fail to consider the immense number of cases of illness presented to him in the course of years of practice and the infinitely remote probability that any one of them is a case of poison. The immense majority of doctors pass through the whole of their professional lives without meeting with such a case; and it is not surprising that when the infinitely rare contingency arises, it nearly always takes the practitioner unawares. My own amazement at this incredible horror tended to make me sympathetic towards Dimsdale and it was with some relief that I noted the courteous and considerate manner that the coroner adopted in dealing with the new witness.

“I think,” the former observed, “that we had better, in the first place, pursue our inquiries concerning the medicine. You have heard the evidence of Dr. Randall and Dr. Barnes. This bottle of medicine, before any was taken from it, contained twelve and a half grains of arsenious acid, in the form of just over three fluid ounces of Fowler’s Solution. Can you suggest any explanation of that fact?”

“No,” replied Dimsdale, “I cannot.”

“What should the bottle have contained? What was the composition of the medicine?”

“The medicine was just a simple, very mild tonic and alternative. The bottle contained twenty-four minims of Tincture of Nux Vomica, sixteen minims of Liquor Arsenicalis, half a fluid ounce of Syrup of Bitter Orange to cover the taste of the Nux Vomica and half an ounce of Compound Tincture of Cardamoms. So that each dose contained three minims of Tincture of Nux Vomica and two minims of Liquor Arsenicalis.”

“Liquor Arsenicalis is another name for Fowler’s Solution I understand?”

“Yes, it is the official name; the other is the popular name.”

“Who supplied this medicine?”

“It was supplied by me.”

“Do you usually supply your patients with medicine?”

“No. Only a few of my old patients who prefer to have their medicine from me. Usually, I write prescriptions which my patients have made up by chemists.”

“This bottle, then, was made up in your own dispensary?”

“Yes.”

“Now, I put it to you, Dr. Dimsdale: this medicine did actually contain Fowler’s Solution, according to the prescription. Is it not possible that some mistake may have occurred in the amount put into the bottle?”

“No, it is quite impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because I made up this particular bottle myself. As my dispenser is not a qualified pharmacist, I always dispense, with my own hands, any medicines containing poisons. All dangerous drugs are kept in a poison cupboard under lock and key, and I carry the key on my private bunch. This is the key, and as you see, the lock is a Yale lock.”

He held up the bunch with the little flat key separated, for the coroner’s and the jurymen’s inspection.

“But,” said the coroner, “you have not made it clear that a mistake in the quantity was impossible.”

“I was coming to that,” replied Dimsdale. “The poisons in the cupboard are, of course, powerful drugs which are given only in small doses, and a special measure-glass is kept in the cupboard to measure them. This glass holds only two drachms—a hundred and twenty minims, that is, a quarter of an ounce. Now, the analysts found in this bottle three fluid ounces of Fowler’s Solution. But to measure out that quantity, I should have had to fill the measure-glass twelve times! That is impossible. No one could do such a thing as that inadvertently, especially when he was dispensing poisons.

“But that is not all. The poison bottles are all quite small. The one in which the Liquor Arsenicalis is kept is a four ounce bottle. It happened that I had refilled it a few days previously and it was full when I dispensed this medicine. Now, obviously, if I had put three ounces of the Liquor into the medicine bottle, there would have remained in the dispensing bottle only one ounce. But the dispensing bottle is still practically full. I had occasion to use it this morning and I found it full save for the few minims that had been taken to make up the deceased’s medicine.

“And there is another point. This medicine was coloured a deepish pink by the Tincture of Cardamoms. But if it had contained three ounces of Fowler’s Solution in addition, it would have been a deep red of quite a different character. But I clearly remember the appearance of the bottle as it lay on the white paper when I was wrapping it up. It had the delicate pink colour that is imparted by the cochineal in the Tincture of Cardamoms.”

The coroner nodded as he wrote down the reply, and enquired:

“Would any of you, gentlemen, like to ask any questions concerning the bottle of medicine?”

“We should like to know, Sir,” said the foreman, “whether this bottle of medicine ever left the doctor’s hands before it was sent to deceased?”

“No, it did not,” replied Dimsdale. “As the dispenser was absent, I put up the bottle entirely myself. I put in the cork, wrote the label, tied on the paper cap, wrapped the bottle up, sealed the wrapping, addressed it and gave it to the boy to deliver.”

The foreman expressed himself as fully satisfied with this answer and the coroner then resumed:

“Well, we seem to have disposed of the medicine so far as you are concerned, Doctor. We will now go on to consider the condition of deceased during the last few days. Did no suspicion of anything abnormal ever occur to you?”

“No, I neither perceived nor suspected anything abnormal.”

“Is that not rather remarkable? I realize that poisoning would be the last thing that you would be looking for or expecting. But when it occurred, is it not a little strange that you did not recognize the symptoms?”

“Not at all,” replied Dimsdale. “There was nothing to recognize. The classical symptoms of arsenic poisoning were entirely absent. You will remember that Sir Robert Detling had no more suspicion than I had.”

“What are the classical symptoms, as you call them, of arsenic poisoning?”

“The recognized symptoms—which are present in the immense majority of cases—are acute abdominal pain and tenderness, intense thirst, nausea, vomiting and purging; the symptoms, in fact, of extreme irritation of the stomach and intestines. But in the case of deceased, these symptoms were entirely absent. There was, in my opinion, nothing whatever in his appearance or symptoms to suggest arsenic poisoning. His condition appeared in no way different from what I had known it to be on several previous occasions; just a variation for the worse of his ordinary ill-health.”

“You do not doubt that arsenic poisoning was really the cause of his death?”

“The analysis seems to put the matter beyond question; otherwise—I mean apart from the analysis—I would not have entertained the idea of arsenic poisoning for a moment.”

“But you do not dispute the cause of death?”

“No. Arsenic is extraordinarily variable in its effects, as Dr. Randall mentioned, both on the dead body and on the living. Very anomalous cases of arsenic poisoning have been mistaken, during life, for opium poisoning.”

The coroner wrote down the answer and having glanced over his notes, asked:

“What was the condition of deceased when his wife went away from home?”

“He was much better. In fact his health seemed to be improving so much that I hoped he would soon be about again.”

“And how soon after his wife’s departure did his last attack begin?”

“I should hardly call it an attack. It was a gradual change for the worse. Mrs. Monkhouse went away on the 29th of August. On the 2nd of September deceased was not so well and was extremely depressed and disappointed at the relapse. From that time his condition fluctuated, sometimes a little better and sometimes not so well. On the 8th he appeared rather seriously ill and was no better on the 9th, the day of the consultation with Sir Robert Detling. After that he seemed to improve a little, and the slight improvement was maintained up to the 12th. His death came, at least to me, as quite a surprise.”

“You spoke just now of several previous occasions on which attacks—or, if you prefer it, relapses—of a similar kind occurred. Looking back on those relapses by the light of what we now know, do you say that they were quite similar, in respect of the symptoms, to the one which ended in the death of deceased?”

“I should say they were identically similar. At any rate, I can recall no difference.”

“Did any of them seem to be as severe as the fatal one?”

“Yes; in fact the last of them—which occurred in June—seemed to be more severe, only that it was followed by improvement and recovery. I have here the section of my card-index which relates to deceased. In the entry dated June 19 you will see that I have noted the patient’s unsatisfactory condition.”

He handed a small pack of index-cards to the coroner, who examined the upper card intently and then, with a sudden raising of the eyebrows, addressed the jury.

“I had better read out the entry. The card is headed ‘Harold Monkhouse’ and this entry reads: ‘June 19. Patient very low and feeble. No appetite. Considerable gastric discomfort and troublesome cough. Pulse 90, small, thready. Heart sounds weak. Sending report to Mrs. Monkhouse.’ ”

He laid the cards down on the table, and, looking fixedly at Dimsdale, repeated: “ ‘Sending report to Mrs. Monkhouse!’ Where was Mrs. Monkhouse?”

“Somewhere in Kent, I believe. I sent the report to the head-quarters of the Women’s Freedom League in Knightrider Street, Maidstone, from whence I supposed it would be forwarded to her.”

For some seconds after receiving this answer the coroner continued to gaze steadily at the witness. At length he observed:

“This is a remarkable coincidence. Can you recall the condition of deceased when Mrs. Monkhouse went away on that occasion?”

“Yes. I remember that he was in comparatively good health. In fact, his improved condition furnished the opportunity for Mrs. Monkhouse to make her visit to Maidstone.”

“Can you tell us how soon after her departure on that occasion the relapse occurred?”

“I cannot say definitely, but my impression is that the change for the worse began a few days after she went away. Perhaps I might be able to judge by looking at my notes.”

The coroner handed him back the index-cards, which he looked through rapidly. “Yes,” he said, at length, “here is an entry on June 11 of a bottle of tonic medicine for Mrs. Monkhouse. So she must have been at home on that date; and as it was a double-sized bottle, it was probably for her to take away with her.”

“Then,” said the coroner, “it is clear that, on the last two occasions, the deceased was comparatively well when his wife left home, but had a serious relapse soon after she went away. Now, what of the previous relapses?”

“I am afraid I cannot remember. I have an impression that Mrs. Monkhouse was away from home when some of them occurred, but at this distance of time, I cannot recollect clearly. Possibly Mrs. Monkhouse, herself, may be able to remember.”

“Possibly,” the coroner agreed, rather drily, “but as the point is of considerable importance, I should be glad if you would presently look through your case-cards and see if you can glean any definite information on the subject. Meanwhile we may pass on to one or two other matters. First as to the medicine which you prescribed for deceased; it contained, as you have told us, a certain amount of Fowler’s Solution, and you considered deceased to be suffering from chronic gastritis. Is Fowler’s Solution usually given in cases of gastritis?”

“No. It is usually considered rather unsuitable. But deceased was very tolerant of small doses of arsenic. I had often given it to him before as a tonic and it had always seemed to agree with him. The dose was extremely small—only two minims.”

“How long have you known deceased?”