“I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death—sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show,” Sir Houston remarked.
“There will have to be an inquest, won’t there?” asked Sainsbury.
“Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts,” urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: “At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.”
Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead man’s nether lip.
“Curious,” he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. “By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he can’t have committed suicide!”
And he glanced eagerly around the room, seeking to discover any bottle, glass, or cup that could have held a fatal draught.
“I don’t see anything which might lead us to such a conclusion, Sir Houston,” answered Sainsbury.
“But he may have swallowed it in tablet form,” the other suggested.
“Ah! yes. I never thought of that!”
“His dying words were hardly the gasping remarks of a suicide.”