terest was now thoroughly aroused, was surprised as he heard the witness's answer to the necessary preliminary questions.
Nicholas Mirandolet—British subject—born in Malta—educated in England—a licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons and of the Royal College of Physicians—in private practice at Portsdown Road, Maida Vale, for the last ten years.
"I believe you were called to the deceased by the last witness. Dr. Mirandolet?" asked the Coroner. "Just so! Will you tell us what you found?"
"I found the deceased lying on the pavement, about a dozen yards from my house," answered Dr. Mirandolet, in a sharp, staccato voice. "A policeman was bending over him. Mr. Gardiner hurriedly told us what he had seen. My first thought was that the man was in what is commonly termed a fit—some form of epileptic seizure, you know. I hastily examined him—and found that my first impression was utterly wrong."
"What did you think—then?" enquired the Coroner. Dr. Mirandolet paused and began to drum the edge of the witness-box with the tips of his long, slender white fingers. He pursed his clean-shaven lips and looked meditatively around him—leisurely surveying the faces turned on him. Finally he glanced at the Coroner, and snapped out a reply.
"I do not know what I thought!"
The Coroner looked up from his notes—in surprise.
"You—don't know what you thought?" he asked.
"No!" said Dr. Mirandolet. "I don't. And I will tell you why. Because I realized—more quickly than it
