He looked at her steadily; it was with difficulty he could put any civility into his tones as he spoke. But she had turned King’s evidence, and he was bound to recognise the fact. The less he showed his hostility, the more he would get out of her.
“It was not for a long time that I was able to piece together certain facts which enable me to answer your question,” replied the woman, who had now perfectly recovered her composure.
“He was. I believe, an Irishman by birth, with no friends or relatives in the world. He had been mixed up with Stent and Bolinski for years, and he knew too much. They knew he was a dying man when they put him into the cab. Their object was to get him off their hands, to let him die elsewhere.”
“But why did they dress him up in Mr Monkton’s clothes,” queried Wingate.
“I suppose, in order that the superficial likeness might enable him to be earned into the house, where he was bound to collapse. He had been an inmate of Bolinski’s house for some time, and I expect for his own reason Bolinski did not wish him to die there.”
Wingate shuddered at a sudden idea that had occurred to him. “Do you think they gave him anything, any drug to hasten his death?” he asked hesitatingly.
“Who ran tell? They had no scruples, though I cannot honestly say I know of any instance in which their callousness led them to take human life.”
“Can you account for his repeating the word ‘Moly’ before he died?”
Mrs Saxton shook her head. “Perhaps you did not catch the word aright. I know he had been privy to this scheme. Perhaps, in his wandering state, he was trying to pronounce the name Monkton, and you mistook the first syllable. I can offer no other explanation.”
There was a brief pause before Wingate spoke again.