“Fortunately the unpleasant duty of finding a verdict on that point does not fall to your lot, Mr. Hessel,” he said. “I have no more to ask you.”
It was now late in the afternoon and the lights had been lit some time. Mr. Queriton glanced at his watch.
“There is time to take one more witness,” he said, “and that will be the last—we will then adjourn—Mr. Septimus Menticle.”
The lawyer looked anything but at his ease as he took his stand. As his examination proceeded, however, his face gradually cleared. He was asked about the will—the effective will, for which probate was now being applied. He gave its outline from memory and handed a copy of it to the Coroner, who, after a brief glance, passed it on to the jury. He gave a rough estimate of the figures concerned and explained the difficulty of stating them accurately at the moment. He was not—to his intense relief—asked about the new will, the will that was never signed; probably it was only an agony deferred but he was human enough to be thankful for the reprieve. It looked as if his evidence, and the day’s work itself, were finished when the Coroner, blotting his notes, put a careless question, apparently as an afterthought.
“Practically,” he said, putting his papers together, “Sir Garth’s two children divide the estate, so that, had he died intestate, the result would have been approximately the same?”
Mr. Menticle did not answer. The Coroner looked up.
“Eh?” he said, “that is so, is it not?”
Mr. Menticle hesitated.
“Am I obliged,” he asked, “to answer hypothetical questions?”
“You are obliged to answer the questions I put to you,” said Mr. Queriton sharply.