Stafford nodded, but said nothing. Presently, after some reference to the disaster at the mine at Glencader and to Stafford's and Byng's bravery, Mr. Mappin said. "I was shocked to hear of Mr. Fellowes' death. I was out of town when it happened—a bad case at Leeds; but I returned early this morning." He paused, inquiringly but Ian said nothing, and he continued, "I have seen the body."
"You were not at the inquest, I think," Ian remarked, casually.
"No, I was not in time for that, but I got permission to view the body."
"And the verdict—you approve?"
"Heart failure—yes." Mr. Mappin's lip curled. "Of course. But he had no heart trouble. His heart wasn't even weak. His life showed that."
"His life showed—?" Ian's eyebrows went up.
"He was very much in society, and there's nothing more strenuous than that. His heart was all right. Something made it fail, and I have been considering what it was."
"Are you suggesting that his death was not natural?"
"Quite artificial, quite artificial, I should say."
Ian took a cigarette, and lighted it slowly. "According to your theory, he must have committed suicide. But how? Not by an effort of the will, as they do in the East, I suppose?"