“No.”
“Then you can’t possibly say—”
“They both wanted the same girl—I know that—and Thoyne took his chance. He came to the door with Clevedon. I was hid in the bushes. ‘Take a dose of that stuff, and it’ll put you to sleep,’ Thoyne said. And, by God, it did! Suicide, no. He didn’t commit suicide. Thoyne killed him.”
And then he flung his arms over the table and fell into a stupid, drunken sleep.
I glanced at Stillman, who shook his head.
“No jury would take his evidence,” he remarked.
I wondered for a moment or two if Tulmin had written the anonymous letters. But then I remembered that they had borne the Midlington postmark.
“Has he been away from London at all?” I asked.
“No.”
“Not even for a day?”