Mitchington suddenly checked himself, with a glance at Dick Bewery.
“I remember—now,” said Bryce. “The mason's labourer! So—this is the man, eh? Well, Mitchington, he's dead!—I found him dead, just now. I should say he'd been dead five to ten minutes—not more. You'd better get help—and I'd like another medical man to see him before he's removed.”
Mitchington looked again at Dick.
“Perhaps you'd fetch Dr. Ransford, Mr—Richard?” he asked. “He's nearest.”
“Dr. Ransford's not at home,” said Dick. “He went to Highminster—some County Council business or other—at ten this morning, and he won't be back until four—I happen to know that. Shall I run for Dr. Coates?”
“If you wouldn't mind,” said Mitchington, “and as it's close by, drop in at the station again and tell the sergeant to come here with a couple of men. I say!” he went on, when the boy had hurried off, “this is a queer business, Dr. Bryce! What do you think?”
“I think this,” answered Bryce. “That man!—look at him!—a strong, healthy-looking fellow, in the very prime of life—that man has met his death by foul means. You take particular care of those dinner things of his—the remains of his dinner, every scrap—and of that tin bottle. That, especially. Take all these things yourself, Mitchington, and lock them up—they'll be wanted for examination.”
Mitchington glanced at the simple matters which Bryce indicated. And suddenly he turned a half-frightened glance on his companion.
“You don't mean to say that—that you suspect he's been poisoned?” he asked. “Good Lord, if that is so—”
“I don't think you'll find that there's much doubt about it,” answered Bryce. “But that's a point that will soon be settled. You'd better tell the Coroner at once, Mitchington, and he'll issue a formal order to Dr. Coates to make a post-mortem. And,” he added significantly, “I shall be surprised if it isn't as I say—poison!”