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And into the middle of it there dropped, like a clap of thunder, the box of chocolates.

"After depositing the box of chocolates with the porter," Moresby continued, shuffling his papers to find the right one, "Mr. Bendix followed Sir Eustace into the lounge, where he was reading the Morning Post."

Roger nodded approval. There was no other paper that Sir Eustace could possibly have been reading but the Morning Post. Bendix himself proceeded to study The Daily Telegraph. He was rather at a loose end that morning. There were no board meetings for him, and none of the businesses in which he was interested called him out into the rain of a typical November day. He spent the rest of the morning in an aimless way, read the daily papers, glanced through the weeklies, and played a hundred up at billiards with another member equally idle. At about half - past twelve he went back to lunch to his house in Eaton Square, taking the chocolates with him.

Mrs. Bendix had given orders that she would not be in to lunch that day, but her appointment had been cancelled and she too was lunching at home. Bendix gave her the box of chocolates after the meal as they were sitting over their coffee in the drawing - room, explaining how they had come into his possession. Mrs. Bendix laughingly teased him about his meanness in not buying her a box, but approved the make and was interested to try the firm's new variety. Joan Bendix was not so serious - minded as not to have a healthy feminine interest in good chocolates.

Their appearance, however, did not seem to impress her very much.

" Kummel, Kirsch, Maraschino," she said, delving with her fingers among the silver - wrapped sweets, each bearing the name of its filling in neat blue lettering. "Nothing else, apparently. I don't see anything new here, Graham. They've just taken those three kinds out of their ordinary liqueur - chocolates."

"Oh?" said Bendix, who was not particularly interested in chocolates. "Well, I don't suppose it matters much. All liqueur - chocolates taste the same to me."

"Yes, and they've even packed them in their usual liqueur - chocolate box," complained his wife, examining the lid.

"They're only a sample," Bendix pointed out. "They may not have got the right boxes ready yet."

"I don't believe there's the slightest difference," Mrs. Bendix pronounced, unwrapping a Kummel. She held the box out to her husband. "Have one? "

He shook his head. "No, thank you, dear. You know I never eat the things."

"Well, you've got to have one of these, as a penance for not buying me a proper box. Catch!" She threw him one. As he caught it she made a wry face. "Oh! I was wrong. These are different. They're twenty times as strong."

"Well, they can bear at least that," Bendix smiled, thinking of the usual anaemic sweetmeat sold under the name of chocolate - liqueur.

He put the one she had given him in his mouth and bit it up; a burning taste, not intolerable but far too pronounced to be pleasant, followed the release of the liquid. "By Jove," he exclaimed, "I should think they are strong. I believe they've filled them with neat alcohol."

"Oh, they wouldn't do that, surely," said his wife, unwrapping another. "But they are very strong. It must be the new mixture. Really, they almost burn. I'm not sure whether I like them or not. And that Kirsch one tasted far too strongly of almonds. This may be better. You try a Maraschino too."

To humour her he swallowed another, and disliked it still more. "Funny," he remarked, touching the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. "My tongue feels quite numb."

"So did mine at first," she agreed. "Now it's tingling rather. Well, I don't notice any difference between the Kirsch and the Maraschino. And they do burn! I can't make up my mind whether I like them or not."

"I don't," Bendix said with decision. "I think - there's something wrong with them. I shouldn't eat any more if I were you."

"Well, they're only an experiment, I suppose," said his wife.

A few minutes later Bendix went out, to keep an appointment in the city. He left his wife still trying to make up her mind whether she liked the chocolates or not, and still eating them to decide. Her last words to him were that they were making her mouth burn again so much that she was afraid she would not be able to manage any more.

"Mr. Bendix remembers that conversation very clearly," said Moresby, looking round at the intent faces, "because it was the last time he saw his wife alive."

The conversation in the drawing - room had taken place approximately between a quarter - past and half - past two. Bendix kept his appointment in the City at three, where he stayed for about half - an - hour, and then took a taxi back to his club for tea.

He had been feeling extremely ill during his business - talk, and in the taxi he very nearly collapsed; the driver had to summon the porter to help get him out and into the club. They both describe him as pale to the point of ghastliness, with staring eyes and livid lips, and his skin damp and clammy. His mind seemed unaffected, however, and once they had got him up the steps he was able to walk, with the help of the porter's arm, into the lounge.

The porter, alarmed by his appearance, wanted to send for a doctor at once, but Bendix, who was the last man to make a fuss, absolutely refused to let him, saying that it could only be a bad attack of indigestion and that he would be all right in a few minutes; he must have eaten something that disagreed with him. The porter was doubtful, but left him.

Bendix repeated this diagnosis of his own condition a few minutes later to Sir Eustace Pennefather, who was in the lounge at the time, not having left the club at all. But this time Bendix added: "And I believe it was those infernal chocolates you gave me, now I come to think of it. I thought there was something funny about them at the time. I'd better go and ring up my wife and find out if she's been taken like this too."

Sir Eustace, a kind - hearted man, who was no less shocked than the porter at Bendix's appearance, was perturbed by the suggestion that he might in any way be responsible for it, and offered to go and ring up Mrs. Bendix himself as the other was in no fit condition to move. Bendix was about to reply when a strange change came over him. His body, which had been leaning limply back in his chair, suddenly heaved rigidly upright; his jaws locked together, the livid lips drawn back in a hideous grin, and his hands clenched on the arms of the chair. At the same time Sir Eustace became aware of an unmistakable smell of bitter almonds.

Thoroughly alarmed now, believing indeed that Bendix was dying under his eyes, he raised a shout for the porter and a doctor. There were two or three other men at the further end of the big room (in which a shout had probably never been heard before in the whole course of its history) and these hurried up at once. Sir Eustace sent one off to tell the porter to get hold of the nearest doctor without a second's delay, and enlisted the others to try to make the convulsed body a little more comfortable. There was no doubt among them that Bendix had taken poison. They spoke to him, asking how he felt and what they could do for him, but he either would or could not answer. As a matter of fact, he was completely unconscious.

Before the doctor had arrived, a telephone message was received from an agitated butler asking if Mr. Bendix was there, and if so would he come home at once as Mrs. Bendix had been taken seriously ill.

At the house in Eaton Square matters had been taking much the same course with Mrs. Bendix as with her husband, though a little more rapidly. She remained for half - an - hour or so in the drawing - room after the latter's departure, during which time she must have eaten about three more of the chocolates. She then went up to her bedroom and rang for her maid, to whom she said that she felt very ill and was going to lie down for a time. Like her husband, she ascribed her condition to a violent attack of indigestion.