ainly a case of accident or foul play."

"Oh no, I don't suggest anything."

The coroner raised his eyebrows; he was tired, and could not understand
such waste of time. But the doctor, curiously enough, seemed to have
grown more tolerant of interruption.

"I have examined the injury very carefully," he said, "and have come to
the deliberate conclusion that it must have been caused by the wooden
key. We must also recollect that the effect of any blow would be
intensified by a weak state of health. I don't wish to rake up anything
against the poor fellow's memory, or to say any word that may cause you
pain, Mr Westray, as his friend; but an examination of the body
revealed traces of chronic alcoholism. We must recollect that."

"The man was, in fact, a confirmed drunkard," the coroner said. He
lived at Carisbury, and, being a stranger both to Cullerne and its
inhabitants, had no scruple in speaking plainly; and, besides this, he
was nettled at the architect's interference. "You mean the man was a
confirmed drunkard," he repeated.

"He was nothing of the kind," Westray said hotly. "I do not say that he
never took more than was good for him, but he was in no sense an
habitual drunkard."

"I did not ask _your_ opinion," retorted the coroner; "we do not want
any lay conjectures. What do you say, Mr Ennefer?"

The surgeon was vexed in his turn at not receiving the conventional
title of doctor, the more so because he knew that he had no legal right
to it. To be called "Mr" demeaned him, he considered, in the eyes of
present or prospective patients, and he passed at once into an attitude
of opposition.

"Oh no, you quite mistake me, Mr Coroner. I did not mean that our poor
friend was an habitual drunkard. I never remember to have actually seen
him the worse for liquor."

"Well, what do you mean? You say the body shows traces of alcoholism,
but that he was not a drunkard."

"Have we any evidence as to Mr Sharnall's state on the evening of his
death?" a juror asked, with a pleasant consciousness that he was taking
a dispassionate view, and making a point of importance.

"Yes, we have considerable evidence," said the coroner. "Call Charles
White."

There stepped forward a little man with a red face and blinking eyes.
His name was Charles White; he was landlord of the Merrymouth Inn. The
deceased visited his inn on the evening in question. He did not know
deceased by sight, but found out afterwards who