"Well, go on, then," he said, "but it doesn't sound interesting. I hate all tales of suicide. And there isn't even a woman in it," he sighed maliciously.
"Oh, if it comes to that, there is."
"But you said—"
"Not in it exactly, unless you go in for post hoc, propter hoc."
"Oh, drive on." Chantry was pettish.
But at that point Havelock the Dane removed his feet from the refectory table. He will probably never know why Chantry, just then, began to be amiable.
"Excuse me, Havelock. Of course, whatever drove a man like Ferguson to suicide is interesting. And I may say he managed it awfully well. Not a hint, anywhere."
"Well, a scientist ought to get something out of it for himself. Ferguson certainly knew how. Can't you imagine him sitting up there, cocking his hair" (an odd phrase, but Chantry understood), "and deciding just how to circumvent the coroner? I can."
"Ferguson hadn't much imagination."
"A coroner doesn't take imagination. He takes a little hard, expert knowledge."