"He poisoned somebody, I believe," I murmured, casually.

"An uncle of his, or something." Mayfield's great squat face wrinkled; the double chin, folding down on the neck, became more ostentatiously double than ever.

"Well, I can't admit that," he said, in his suave voice, twirling the string of his eye-glass.

"I was Yorke-Bannerman's advocate, you see; and therefore I was paid not to admit it.

Besides, he was a friend of mine, and I always liked him.