I did not like it; but just then two hundred in gold was life to me, so I said: “Let me hear the whole of it first. I am safe.” “That’s square enough,” said the man. “My wife’s got”--correcting himself with a shivery shrug--“my wife had a brother that took to cutting up rough because when I’d been up too late I handled her a leetle hard now and again. “Luckily he fell sick with typhoid just then--you see, he lived with us. When he got better I guessed he’d drop all that; but somehow he was worse than ever--clean off his head, and strong as an ox. My wife said to put him away in an asylum. I didn’t think that would do. At last he tried to get out. He was going to see the police about--well--the thing was awful serious, and my wife carrying on like mad, and wanting doctors. I had no mind to run, and something had got to be done. So Simon Stagers and I talked it over. The end of it was, he took worse of a sudden, and got so he didn’t know nothing. Then I rushed for a doctor. He said it was a perforation, and there ought to have been a doctor when he was first took sick. “Well, the man died, and as I kept about the house, my wife had no chance to talk. The doctor fussed a bit, but at last he gave a certificate. I thought we were done with it. But my wife she writes a note and gives it to a boy in the alley to put in the post. We suspicioned her, and Stagers was on the watch. After the boy got away a bit, Simon bribed him with a quarter to give him the note, which wasn’t no less than a request to the coroner to come to the house to-morrow and make an examination, as foul play was suspected--and poison.” When the man quit talking he glared at me. I sat still. I was cold all over. I was afraid to go on, and afraid to go back, besides which, I did not doubt that there was a good deal of money in the case. “Of course,” said I, “it’s nonsense; only I suppose you don’t want the officers about, and a fuss, and that sort of thing.” “Exactly,” said my friend. “It’s all bosh about poison. You’re the coroner. You take this note and come to my house. Says you: ‘Mrs. File, are you the woman that wrote this note? Because in that case I must examine the body.’” “I see,” said I; “she needn’t know who I am, or anything else; but if I tell her it’s all right, do you think she won’t want to know why there isn’t a jury, and so on?” “Bless you,” said the man, “the girl isn’t over seventeen, and doesn’t know no more than a baby. As we live up-town miles away, she won’t know anything about you.” “I’ll do it,” said I, suddenly, for, as I saw, it involved no sort of risk; “but I must have three hundred dollars.” “And fifty,” added the wolf, “if you do it well.” Then I knew it was serious. With this the man buttoned about him a shaggy gray overcoat, and took his leave without a single word in addition.