"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,