"Last Monday night."

"Monday? Not Tuesday?"

"No, sir, Monday, the 16th."

"Will you tell us to whom you sold it?"

You could have heard a pin drop.

"Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp."

Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was
sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the
damning words fell 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