Proceeding, Mr. Hessel told of how his friend had pulled himself together, seemed to be really quite recovered, how they walked on slowly, arm-in-arm, and then of the sudden collapse and, as was now known, almost instantaneous death of Sir Garth. “And he said nothing before he died?” asked the Coroner. “Nothing. He seemed to gasp—more than once, as if he was choking. And then he collapsed, almost pulling me down with him. He never spoke.” Mr. Hessel himself spoke in a quiet, restrained voice, but it was evident that he was deeply affected. “You are—you were Sir Garth’s closest friend, were you not, Mr. Hessel?” “In a sense, I suppose I was. He was very good to me.” “You are his sole executor?” “Yes.” “And he left particular instructions that his papers were to be committed to your charge?” “That is so.” “Have you been through them?” “Cursorily only.” “From what you have seen or from what you know, have you formed any opinion as to who could have wished to bring about his death?” “Absolutely no. Even now, even after what all these expert medical witnesses have said, I find it difficult to believe that Sir Garth was murdered, or even that there was an attack upon him. I know it must sound unreasonable in the face of such testimony, but I simply cannot bring myself to believe it.” The Coroner gave an almost unnoticeable shrug of the shoulders. “Fortunately the unpleasant duty of finding a verdict on that point does not fall to your lot, Mr. Hessel,” he said. “I have no more to ask you.” It was now late in the afternoon and the lights had been lit some time. Mr. Queriton glanced at his watch. “There is time to take one more witness,” he said, “and that will be the last—we will then adjourn—Mr. Septimus Menticle.” The lawyer looked anything but at his ease as he took his stand. As his examination proceeded, however, his face gradually cleared. He was asked about the will—the effective will, for which probate was now being applied. He gave its outline from memory and handed a copy of it to the Coroner, who, after a brief glance, passed it on to the jury. He gave a rough estimate of the figures concerned and explained the difficulty of stating them accurately at the moment. He was not—to his intense relief—asked about the new will, the will that was never signed; probably it was only an agony deferred but he was human enough to be thankful for the reprieve. It looked as if his evidence, and the day’s work itself, were finished when the Coroner, blotting his notes, put a careless question, apparently as an afterthought. “Practically,” he said, putting his papers together, “Sir Garth’s two children divide the estate, so that, had he died intestate, the result would have been approximately the same?” Mr. Menticle did not answer. The Coroner looked up. “Eh?” he said, “that is so, is it not?” Mr. Menticle hesitated. “Am I obliged,” he asked, “to answer hypothetical questions?”