“Who is the next heiress to this vast estate after Lord Leaton and his daughter?” said the doctor, looking fixedly in the eyes of his companion.
Malcolm Montrose started up, threw his hands to his head, and then reeling back, dropped into his chair again, and remained gazing in horror upon the speaker.
“Who,” pursued the doctor, with a merciless inflexibility, “who had constant access to the bedside of the late Lord Leaton?—who prepared his food and drink?—who has been the constant attendant of his invalid daughter?—who watched by her side last night?—whose hand was it that placed at her lips the fatal draught that laid her dead?”
“My God! my God, doctor! what horrible monster of suspicion has taken possession of your mind? Give it a name!” exclaimed the young man, as great drops of sweat beaded upon his agonized brow.
“Eudora Leaton! Her hand it was that prepared the death-draught for her uncle! her hand it was that gave the poisoned draught to his daughter! It is a terrible charge to make, I know; but we must not deal hesitatingly with the secret poisoner,” said the doctor, solemnly.
“Great Heaven! it cannot be—it cannot be!” groaned the young man, in mortal anguish.
The doctor arose to his feet, saying—
“I leave you, Mr. Montrose, to recover this shock, while I go to put seals upon the effects of this girl, and to prepare for the investigation that shall bring the poisoner to justice.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE ACCUSATION.
“If she prove guilty—