CHAPTER FIVEThe Gamadge Gambit
Gamadge put down his empty glass and rustled his notes. “The People of the State of Connecticut,” he said, rejected the suicide idea—rejected it, through the mouth of the prosecutor, with irony and with contempt. Why, they wanted to know, should Gregson—whom nobody accused of having been a raving maniac—why should he laugh quietly to himself in the middle of the night (they saw fit to accept Miss Warren’s story), scrape the serial number from a twenty-year-old-at-least tube of morphia tablets, and gulp a round dozen of them down; for no ascertainable reason, and without leaving a letter to his wife? They said that a suicide doesn’t take pains to make the source of the poison he uses untraceable, or go out of his way to leave suspicion upon his household.
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