"And you mean to say he was n't poisoned," said she, with more than a trace of disappointment in her voice,—"not poisoned at all?"
"No more than you are," said I. "If I had found any signs of foul play, I should have had a regular inquest. As it is, the less said about it the better; and the fact is, it would have been much wiser to have kept quiet at the beginning. I can't understand why you should have troubled me about it at all."
"Neither I would," said she, "if I had n't been pretty sure. I guess now the sooner I leave, the better for me."
"As to that," I returned, "it is none of my business; but you may rest certain that you are mistaken about the cause of your brother's death."
As I left the house, whom should I meet but Dr. Evans. "Why, halloa!" said he; "called you in, have they? Who 's sick?"
You may believe I was scared. "Mrs. File," said I, remembering with horror that I had forgotten to ask whether at any time the man had had a doctor.
"Bad lot," returned Evans; "I was sent for to see the brother when he was as good as dead."
"As bad as dead," I retorted, with a sickly effort at a joke. "What killed him?"
"I suppose one of the ulcers gave way, and that he died of the consequences. Perforation, you know, and that sort of thing. I thought of asking File for a post, but I did n't."
"Wish you luck of them. Good-by."