if questions I ask you seem painful, but I have reasons for wishing to be certain on this point." "No," said Mrs. Brenton; "he was perfectly sane. No man could have been more so. I am certain that he never thought of committing suicide." "Why are you so certain on that point?" "I do not know why. I only know I am positive of it." "Do you know if he had any enemy who might wish his death?" "I doubt if he had an enemy in the world. I do not know of any." "Have you ever heard him speak of anybody in a spirit of enmity?" "Never. He was not a man who bore enmity against people. Persons whom he did not like he avoided." "The poison, it is said, was put into his cup of coffee. Do you happen to know," said Stratton, turning to the sheriff, "how they came to that conclusion?" "No, I do not," answered the sheriff. "In fact, I don't see any reason why they should think so." "Was morphia found in the coffee cup afterwards?" "No; at the time of the inquest all the things had been cleared away. I think it was merely presumed that the morphine was put into his coffee." "Who poured out the coffee he drank that night?" "I did," answered his wife. "You were at one end of the table and he at the other, I suppose?" "Yes." "How did the coffee cup reach him?" "I gave it to the servant, and she placed it before him." "It passed through no other hands, then?" "No." "Who was the servant?" Mrs. Brenton pondered for a moment.