“What?”
“Murder, sir.”
“Well, then, you had better go to the police, man, for that’s not in my way.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, it is. You are Mr Gartram’s lawyer, and have to do with his affairs.”
“Good heavens, man, what do you mean?”
“That Mr Gartram was murdered, sir—poisoned, and I’ve got the clue.”
“What?”
“I thought I wouldn’t say a word, sir. That it was too horrible, and that no matter what one did, it wouldn’t bring the poor man back to life; but when I see the murderer going on in his wickedness, spending the money he must have stolen, and pretending he has come in for a fortune, and on the strength of it trying to delude weak widows he lodges with, and carrying on with other ladies too, it is time to speak. The human heart won’t hold such secrets without a busting out.”
The lawyer started at the sound of the word money, for it seemed to strike a chord within his own breast.
“Look here, Mr Wimble,” he said; “do I gather aright that you think that Mr Gartram was murdered?”