"But surely," I objected, "if the beer poisoned you, it would have poisoned everyone else."
"I don't think the beer would have poisoned me, sir, if it had been left alone," he said pointedly.
"What do you mean, Milford?" I asked.
He shifted a little uneasily in his chair. "Well, sir, it may be fancy, and you may think I'm speaking foolishly, but I can't help having an idea that the man I was speaking to may have put something in it when I wasn't looking."
"The man?" I said. "What man?"
"It was a chap in the bar, sir. A big, foreign-looking fellow he was. He started talking to me when I came in, though, as far as I know, I'd never set eyes on him before. It's my belief that for some reason of his own he put something in my drink."
This theory of Milford's fitted in so exactly with my own suspicions that for a moment I felt as if I were partly guilty.
"Would you know him again?" I asked.
"Oh yes, sir. He was a big, black-haired fellow, with one shoulder a little higher than the other. I didn't fancy him when he came up and spoke to me."
I was just going to observe that the landlord of the premises might possibly be able to tell us something about the gentleman, when there came a tap at the door, and the parlour-maid entered.