“Why do you say that, if a coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of ‘Death from Misadventure’?”
Mr. Dibbin’s eyes shifted again slightly. “That was—er—what one calls—”
“I see. The verdict was virtually one of suicide?”
“It could not well be otherwise. She had purchased the sleeping-draft herself, but, unfortunately, fortified it with strychnine. How else could the precautions about the door be explained? That is the only means of egress. Each window is sixty feet from the ground.”
“Did she rent the flat herself?”
“No. That is the only really mysterious circumstance about the affair. It was taken on a three years’ agreement, and furnished for her, by a gentleman.”
“Who was he?”
“No one knows. He paid cash in advance for everything.”
David was surprised. “Say, Mr. Dibbin,” he queried, “how about the ‘references’ upon which the over-landlord insisted in my case?”
“What are references worth, anyhow?” cried the agent, testily. “In this instance, when inquired into by the police, they were proved to be bogus. A bundle of bank-notes inspires confidence when you are a buyer, and propose to part with them forthwith.”