The prosecutor announced that the efforts of his detectives had resulted in nothing more. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant accusing any one else, and that against Harry Bartlett was of so slender and circumstantial a character that it could not be held to have any real value before the grand jury nor in a trial court.
“What is your motion, then?” asked the coroner.
“Well, I don't know that I have any motion to make,” said Mr. Stryker. “If this were before a county judge, and the prisoner's counsel demanded it, I should have to agree to a nolle pros. As it is I simply say I have no other evidence to offer at this time.”
“Then the jury may consider that already before it?” asked Billy Teller.
“Yes.”
“You have heard what the prosecutor said, gentlemen,” went on the coroner. “You may retire and consider your verdict.”
This they did, for fifteen minutes—fifteen nerve-racking minutes for more than one in the improvised courtroom. Then the twelve men filed back, and in answer to the usual questions the foreman announced:
“We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison administered by a person, or persons, unknown.”
There was silence for a moment, and then, as Bartlett started from his seat, a flush mantling his pale face, Viola, with a murmured “Thank God!” fainted.