A little, shrivelled old man, who had been seated in a corner by the fire, sipping occasionally at a glass of hot rum, interposed suddenly.
“Who was the gal they quarrelled over?” he demanded in a shrill, piping treble. “I know who it was.”
“Then if I were you I’d keep it to myself, Jonathan Crossty,” Tim said. “No names—think what you like but don’t say it out loud—that’s safest.”
Jonathan nodded as if in agreement and returned once more to his hot rum.
“Now, that whisky bottle,” Joe Tompkinson resumed, “how could any man tell it was the same. ‘Taint in sense, is it? Then why worry?”
A youth came briskly in and asked for a glass of stout. He caught Joe’s last remark.
“Aye,” he said, “but there’s more than one theory will fit that.”
“You newspaper gentlemen are wonderful fond of theories,” Tim Dallott responded. “Your papers would be none the worse if you were a bit fonder of facts.”
The youth laughed good-humouredly and took a long drink at his stout.
“Well,” he said, as he set his glass down again, “suppose that X—we’ll not mention names, the libel laws being what they are—wanted to poison Z. ‘Bring me a whisky and soda,’ says Z. And X, as he brings the bottle, drops a dose of prussic acid in it. Good!”