"Mr. Ayscough was with me when it did arrive," replied Lauriston, glancing at the detective. "We found it—two letters—at my lodgings when he walked round there with me after what I have just told you of."
"You had done your business on that previous occasion with the grand-daughter?" asked the Coroner. "You had not seen the old man, then?"
"I never to my knowledge—saw Mr. Multenius till I found him lying dead in his own parlour," answered Lauriston.
The Coroner turned from the witness, and glanced towards the table at which Mr. Parminter and the police officials sat. And Mr. Parminter slowly rose and looked at Lauriston, and put his first question—in a quiet, almost suave voice, as if he and the witness were going to have a pleasant and friendly little talk together.
"So your ambition is to be a writer of fiction?" he asked.
"I am a writer of fiction!" replied Lauriston.
Mr. Parminter pulled out a snuff-box and helped himself to a pinch.
"Have you published much?" he enquired, drily.
"Two or three stories—short stories."
"Did they bring in much money?"
"Five pounds each."
"Have you done anything else for a living but that since you came to London two years ago?"
"No, I haven't!"
"How much have you earned by your pen since you came, now?"
"About thirty pounds."
