from the young man’s lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face.
“You are sure of what you say?” asked the Coroner sternly.
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?”
The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner’s frown.
“Oh, no, sir—of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there
that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure.”
“He does, does he? That is very interesting—very interesting,” murmured Poirot softly. “And Mrs. Cavendish?”
A faint cloud passed over John’s face.
“I have not the least idea what my wife’s views on the subject are.”