“I see nowt good in that,” Joe Tompkinson interrupted.
“You should skin your eyes, then,” Tim Dallott retorted brusquely.
“Well, it’s good enough, anyway,” the pressman went on. “So Z drinks his whisky and falls down dead. Then X creeps in, takes away the doped bottle, and smashes it, and puts another of the same brand in its place. Could anyone tell that the bottle had been changed?”
“Meaning by Z, Sir Philip Clevedon,” Joe interposed, “and by X—”
“Didn’t I tell you to mention no names,” Tim interrupted angrily. “If you’re intent on dragging folk in by name go and do it outside and not in this snug.”
“No offence meant,” Joe replied meekly.
“Well—no names, and stick to that,” Tim retorted.
“But there’s another way,” the pressman went on oracularly, obviously in love with the sound of his own voice and delighted with the impression he was making. “Let’s suppose that X gives Z a drink of whisky at dinner and then puts the bottle on the sideboard. Presently Y creeps in and drops the dope into the whisky and then, when Z has pegged out, comes back and changes the bottles—how about that? Y would be somebody who had a grudge against Z—perhaps he had had a quarrel with him. But the point is here—nobody can swear it was the same bottle, that stands to reason.”
“You’ll not print either of these theories in your paper, I’ll bet a dollar,” Tim Dallott said.
“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” the youth returned vaguely. “That’s the editor’s job, not mine.”