“But I hardly know how I can be of help.  I have no house of my own, and—­well, the truth of the matter is, Sexton, just at present I am not on very good terms with the young lady myself.”

“I know that, sir,” more confidently.  “And it isn’t a position I am seeking, at all.  I have quite a tidy bit of money laid away, and could get plenty of work.  That’s not the point, sir.  Why should Miss Natalie tell me to go like that?  It isn’t a bit like her, sir; she ain’t seemed natural at all lately, and I tell you there’s something wrong goin’ on out there.  I’m sure o’ that, sir.”

“Sure of what?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s my opinion that Percival Coolidge never killed himself, sir.”

West sat up stiffly, as though struck a blow.  These words startled him; drove his own mind into sudden activity.

“What makes you think that, Sexton?” he questioned slowly.

“Well, there’s more than one thing,” as though glad to have made the plunge, and anxious to justify himself.  “But first of all that wasn’t his revolver they found lying beside him.  He always had one in his valise, an’ it’s there now, or was when I looked to see.”

“You didn’t tell that to the coroner.”

“No, sir; he never put me on the stand.  Besides I didn’t know about it then.  After I thought about it, I told Miss Natalie, sir.”

“Oh, you did! and what did she say?”

“She didn’t think that proved anything; that he probably had the other in his pocket.”

“This was before you were dismissed?”

“Yes, sir; the evening before, sir.”

West whistled gravely, his gaze on the other’s face.

“And is that all, Sexton?” he asked finally.  “Is there any other reason why you doubt Coolidge killed himself?”

“Did you notice where he was shot, sir?”

“Behind the right ear; the wound was plainly visible.”

“Not very easy for a man to do himself, sir.”

“No, but possible, nevertheless.  The coroner was satisfied on that point.”

“Yes, sir, but the coroner overlooked one thing, sir.  He was sure it was a suicide case, and wanted to get done with it in a hurry.  I and Simmons, sir, washed the body to get it ready for burial, an’ I combed the hair down over the bullet wound.  There wasn’t no powder marks on the skin, an’ not a hair was singed, sir.  That’s what makes me say he never killed himself.”

West sat silent and motionless, looking straight at the man opposite, endeavouring to decide on a course of action.  Someway in the depth of his earnestness, Sexton no longer appeared a servant.  He was a man, voicing a man’s heart.  West realized the change instinctively; here was an intelligent loyal fellow, to be met frankly, and for the time being, at least, on the ground of equality.  It would be useless to try to either mislead, or deceive.