His voice got so husky he could hardly speak and he bent his head down, looking at his hands. I guess every face in the room was turned to him but mine. I couldn’t look at him but sat like a dummy, picking at my gloves, and inside, in my heart, I felt like I was crying. In the silence I heard one of the reporters whisper: "Gee—poor chap! that’s tough!" He was asked some more questions, principally about what Sylvia had told him of the quarrels with her stepfather. You could see he was careful in his answers. According to what he said she’d only alluded to them in a general way as making the life at Mapleshade very uncomfortable. He was just getting up when I saw one of the jurors pass a slip of paper across the table to the Coroner. He looked at it, then, as Mr. Reddy was moving away, asked him to wait a minute; there was another question—had he stopped anywhere during Sunday night to get gasoline for his car? Mr. Reddy turned back and said very simply: "No, I had an extra drum in the car." "You used that?" "Yes." "What did you do with the drum?" "Threw it into the bushes somewhere along the road." "Do you know the place?" He gave a sort of smile and shook his head. "No, I don’t remember. I don’t know where I filled the tank. When it was done I pitched the drum back into the trees—somewhere along the turnpike." Several more of us came after that, I among them. But the real sensation of the day was the Doctor’s evidence, which I’ll keep for the next chapter. VII The Doctor was as calm and matter-of-fact as if he were giving a lecture to a class of students. He looked much better than he did that morning in the Exchange; rested and with a good color. As he settled himself in the chair, I heard one of the reporters whisper: "I wouldn’t call that the mug of a murderer." I looked over my shoulder right at the one who had spoken, a young chap with a round, rosy, innocent sort of face like a kid’s and yellow hair standing up over his head as thick as sheep’s wool. I’d seen him several times in the Exchange and knew his name was Babbitts and that the other fellows called him "Soapy." When he caught my eye he winked, and you couldn’t be mad because it was like a big pink baby winking at you. The Doctor told his story more straight and continuous than any of the others. It went along so clear from point to point, that the coroner didn’t have to ask so many questions, and when he did the doctor was always ready with his answer. It sounded to me as if he’d thought out every detail, worked it up just right to get the best effect. He began with Saturday morning, when he’d got the call to go to the Dalzells’.