length, however, I persuaded him that he had a duty in the matter.
“If you refuse to help me,” I said, “and I am able to prove the murder, you will be something very like an accessory after the fact.”
Mrs. Munting, who, in practical common sense, is worth ten of her husband, agreed with this point of view.
“It would be very unpleasant if you got into trouble about it, Jack. I do think if Mr. Lathom really has done this dreadful thing, you oughtn’t to stand in the way of getting it found out. A man like that is very dangerous. And they say that when a poisoner has once committed a murder and got away with it, he is very likely to try it again. It might be you or young Mr. Harrison next time.”
“Do you really think so?” he muttered, unhappily.
“I do. And oh, Jack! Do think of the awful cruelty of letting that poor man die such a painful, lingering death, all alone in that place, without a soul to come near him. Anyone who could do that would be an absolute monster. I don’t care what excuse he had.”
“That’s been haunting me,” said Munting—and he did look very white and ill. “All right, Harrison. I’ll see it through. Look here, I’ll come along to the place with you.”
We walked in complete silence till we came to St. Anthony’s. There were numbers of people passing in and out through the wide entrance, and nobody took the slightest notice of us.
“I think the labs are up this staircase,” said Munting, leading the way. “And here’s where we hang up the hats and coats,” he added, rattling his umbrella into a hatstand placed inside the heavy swinging door.
“Is that usual?” I inquired.