"Yes, sir; the evening before, sir."
West whistled gravely, his gaze on the other's face.
"And is that all, Sexton?" he asked finally. "Is there any other reason why you doubt Coolidge killed himself?"
"Did you notice where he was shot, sir?"
"Behind the right ear; the wound was plainly visible."
"Not very easy for a man to do himself, sir."
"No, but possible, nevertheless. The coroner was satisfied on that point."
"Yes, sir, but the coroner overlooked one thing, sir. He was sure it was a suicide case, and wanted to get done with it in a hurry. I and Simmons, sir, washed the body to get it ready for burial, an' I combed the hair down over the bullet wound. There wasn't no powder marks on the skin, an' not a hair was singed, sir. That's what makes me say he never killed himself."
West sat silent and motionless, looking straight at the man opposite, endeavouring to decide on a course of action. Someway in the depth of his earnestness, Sexton no longer appeared a servant. He was a man, voicing a man's heart. West realized the change instinctively; here was an intelligent loyal fellow, to be met frankly, and for the time being, at least, on the ground of equality. It would be useless to try to either mislead, or deceive.
"Sexton," he began finally, "this is a pretty serious charge you make, my man, but since I have been thinking things over, I confess some suspicious circumstances have arisen in my own mind. Of course I was not aware of these facts you have just related, but they fit in nicely with some observations of my own. The truth is," he confessed frankly, "I did not tell all I knew to the coroner's jury. I meant to do so, but the right questions were not asked me, and certain details slipped my memory until too late. Do you recall a boulder of rock out in that clover field?"