"And be dragged up before a thousand people, all whispering and joggling to see me? No, I have too much self-respect. I only speak of it now," said he with great dignity, "because I'm so deuced curious to know whether it was poison he threw out, a dose of chloral, or just plain wine. It might have been any of these three, but I have always thought it was the first, because he seemed so afraid of being seen."
"Afraid of being seen drinking it or of throwing it out?"
"Throwing it out."
"Oh!"
Sam and I stopped helping ourselves to wine and left the bottle to him.
"Do you know what time this was?" I asked.
"No; how should I? It was before ten, for at ten he was dead."
"It could not have been poison he threw out or even the remains of it," I remarked, "for that would imply suicide; and the verdict was one of murder."
Mr. Rosenthal was just far enough gone to accept this assertion.
"That's so. I wonder I never thought of that before. Then it must have been wine. Now, I wouldn't have thought so badly of Mr. Gillespie as that. I always considered him a sensible man, and no sensible man pours wine out of a window," he sapiently remarked, raising his glass.