Curiously enough, the coroner did not appear to be disappointed by that reply and it also had the effect of quietening Ronald Thoyne. His lips moved in a quick smile and he settled himself back in his chair with an air of obvious satisfaction. What they might say about himself apparently did not worry him.
“Could you hear what they said when they raised their voices?”
“I heard Sir Philip say, ‘You are talking nonsense. I cannot compel her to marry me against her will. The decision rests with her.’ He was not exactly shouting but was speaking a little more loudly than usual. Mr. Thoyne seemed angry. ‘You must release her from her promise,’ he said. His voice was hoarse and he struck the table with his stick as he spoke. I think Sir Philip stood up from his seat then. I did not see him, of course, but I seemed to hear him walking up and down. And he spoke sharply, almost angrily. The words appeared to come with a sort of snap. ‘I have nothing to say in this matter,’ Sir Philip declared. ‘I neither hold her to her promise nor release her from it. The decision rests solely with her. If she notifies me that she cannot marry me I have no power to compel her. But I am not prepared to take your word for it. The decision must come from herself.’ Mr. Thoyne said ‘That is your last word, is it?’ to which Sir Philip replied, ‘My first word and my last. As far as I am concerned I am engaged and remain engaged until the young lady herself notifies me that the engagement is at an end.’ Then Mr. Thoyne said, ‘If you don’t release her I shall find a way of making you—I shall find a way.’”
“Upon which,” Thoyne rapped out sarcastically, “I poisoned him with prussic acid. It certainly was an effective form of compulsion.”
“Silence!” cried a police officer.
“Silence!” Thoyne echoed irascibly. “It is a time for silence, isn’t it, when I am virtually accused of murdering Sir Philip Clevedon? This lady has a marvellous memory, hasn’t she?”
“You will have an opportunity of giving evidence and of denying—” the coroner began.
“I am denying nothing,” Thoyne interrupted half sullenly. “The story is all right as far as it goes. Sir Philip Clevedon probably stood nearer a thrashing than ever in his life before. But I didn’t poison him nor did I stab him with a hatpin.”
I happened just then to glance casually at Pepster, who was seated a little behind the coroner and who was watching Thoyne with a keen, intent gaze as if anxious not to miss the smallest trifle of word or gesture. I began to read some method into this curiously unconventional inquest episode.
“And what happened then?” the coroner asked, turning to Mrs. Halfleet.