"No one ever intimated it," returned the doctor. "Remember that Graeme sat with his back to the fireplace and windows, and facing the entrance door. It would not be easy for 'someone' to unlock the door, pass to the vicinity of the writing desk, and strike the fatal blow—all without attracting the attention of the victim. Now no sounds of a struggle were heard by anyone, and there was nothing in the disposition of the body to suggest a physical encounter. No, you can't get away from the plain and simple facts: Mr. Graeme is taken with vertigo; he staggers and falls; his temple comes into contact with the sharp corner of that iron despatch-box; he becomes unconscious immediately, and shortly afterwards he dies. What more do you want to know?"
"So that is what killed him?"
"If I were perfectly convinced of the truth of my own theory," returned the doctor, "would I have ever intimated to you, Mr. Hildebrand, that there was something odd about the business? Betty put her finger at once upon what had been vaguely in my mind. Where was that despatch-box when I first entered the room and found Francis Graeme lying dead upon the floor? I don't know, do you?"
"There ought to be an inquest," I declared. "And of course an autopsy. You are willing?" I asked, turning to Betty.
"Yes."
"Then it is decided. Who is the coroner, Doctor Marcy?"
"John Thaneford."
For a moment I thought the doctor guilty of execrably bad taste in making a joke of the matter; then I saw that he was in sober earnest. "For some extraordinary reason," he explained, "Thaneford took it into his head to try the political game. The local Democratic slate had already been made up, but he was told that he could have one of the minor offices. Accordingly, he accepted the nomination for coroner and was elected by the usual party majority."
"Well, he is sworn to do his duty," I persisted.
"Surely."