“Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous.”
The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the chemist who made up the medicine might have committed an error.
“That, of course, is always possible,” replied the doctor.
But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that possibility. The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs. Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her death.
So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the
wandered round the room—“this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much. Only this.”
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it over to me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it.