“Yes, sir. Him as was turned away, and heard to say threatening things against poor Mr Gartram.”
“But found on the premises?”
“Yes, sir; the night Mr Gartram died of poison, no matter what the doctors said; and that night the deed was done this bottle of stuff was thrown out of the window down among the rocks and sand.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I found it early next morning,” said Wimble, holding up the bottle; “and I can swear it was not there the day before.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, man! It’s impossible.”
“That’s what I said to myself, sir, but nature argued it out inside me. ‘Here’s Mr Chris Lisle,’ it said, ‘wanted Miss Claude, and her father refused him, and was going to give her to Mr Glyddyr, of the yacht.’ There’s one reason. Mr Chris was thrown over, because he was poor. That’s another reason. Mr Chris is rich now. How did he become rich? Nobody knows. Mr Chris was found in the garden, hiding, on the night Mr Gartram died, and the window was open.—What do you say to that? This bottle, with some poison in it, was found under the window by me.”
“Let me look.”
“No, sir. That bottle’s mine now. I wouldn’t part with it for a hundred pounds.”
“Why?”