The most relentless duel of words—and a duel it had been between those two men, shut up in that cozy, shabby, consulting room—had concerned the strawberries eaten by Mrs. Garlett the evening preceding the night of her death. At first the doctor had not seen the trend of the younger man’s questions, as he had assented, without much thought, to a statement that Mrs. Garlett had been given the strawberries by her husband.
Then suddenly he had exclaimed, “You realize that I’m not speaking from knowledge, but only from hearsay, Mr. Fradelle?”
The other seemed taken aback. “How do you mean, doctor?”
“I was simply told by Miss Cheale that Garlett had probably given them to the poor lady.”
“Even so, I presume that you have no doubt Garlett did give his wife the strawberries?”
“Well——”
The doctor hesitated a moment; he was tired and somewhat confused. At last he replied evasively: “Garlett strongly denies that he even saw the little dish of strawberries, and he further asserts that, knowing how delicate was his wife’s digestion, nothing would have made him give them to her so late in the evening.”
Mr. Fradelle frowned. He consulted his notes.
“There seems very little doubt that the arsenic was administered in the sugar spread over the strawberries. Still, from what you now say, there seems to be no direct evidence at all as to who gave the strawberries to the poisoned woman?”
“The one person who could give you authentic information as to what happened on the evening before Mrs. Garlett’s death is Miss Agatha Cheale, who was Mrs. Garlett’s housekeeper-companion.”