"Yes, sir; the evening before, sir."

West whistled gravely, his gaze on the other's face.

"And is that all, Sexton?" he asked finally. "Is there any other reason
why you doubt Coolidge killed himself?"

"Did you notice where he was shot, sir?"

"Behind the right ear; the wound was plainly visible."

"Not very easy for a man to do himself, sir."

"No, but possible, nevertheless. The coroner was satisfied on that
point."

"Yes, sir, but the coroner overlooked one thing, sir. He was sure it was
a suicide case, and wanted to get done with it in a hurry. I and
Simmons, sir, washed the body to get it ready for burial, an' I combed
the hair down over the bullet wound. There wasn't no powder marks on the
skin, an' not a hair was singed, sir. That's what makes me say he never
killed himself."

West sat silent and motionless, looking straight at the man opposite,
endeavouring to decide on a course of action. Someway in the depth of his
earnestness, Sexton no longer appeared a servant. He was a man, voicing a
man's heart. West realized the change instinctively; here was an
intelligent loyal fellow, to be met frankly, and for the time being, at
least, on the ground of equality. It would be useless to try to either