A startled cry from the farther end of the passage arrested their attention.
“Mr Carrados,” called Hollyer, “oh, come at once.”
At the open door of the other bedroom stood the lieutenant, his eyes still turned towards something in the room beyond, a little empty bottle in his hand.
“Dead!” he exclaimed tragically, with a sob, “with this beside her. Dead just when she would have been free of the brute.”
The blind man passed into the room, sniffed the air, and laid a gentle hand on the pulseless heart.
“Yes,” he replied. “That, Hollyer, does not always appeal to the woman, strange to say.”
THE CLEVER MRS STRAITHWAITE
Mr Carlyle had arrived at The Turrets in the very best possible spirits. Everything about him, from his immaculate white spats to the choice gardenia in his buttonhole, from the brisk decision with which he took the front-door steps to the bustling importance with which he had positively brushed Parkinson aside at the door of the library, proclaimed consequence and the extremely good terms on which he stood with himself.
“Prepare yourself, Max,” he exclaimed. “If I hinted at a case of exceptional delicacy that will certainly interest you by its romantic possibilities——?”