She glided to the sideboard, and returned to place one before him. The neck of the decanter chattered loudly against the thin edge, and his teeth gnashed horribly as he poured out half the glass full, and then dropped the vessel, for the remainder to run gurgling out with a strange noise, as if the spirit within the decanter were dying. Then, grasping the glass, he raised it and held it out.
“Drink!” he said huskily—“drink!”
The woman stood motionless for a few moments, rigid, as if petrified. Then, without a word, she raised her hand, took the glass calmly, and raised it to her lips, when in a paroxysm of agony the dying man threw out his arms, the glass was dashed from her hand, and he fell heavily upon the floor. As he fell writhing upon the rug the door was thrust open, and a detective-sergeant and a couple of policemen entered the room.
“John Huish, alias Mark Riversley, I have a warrant—Good heavens!” The sergeant stopped, caught the decanter from the table, smelt it, and set it down. “Too late!” he exclaimed, as a strong odour of bitter almonds floated through the room. “Here—a doctor—quick!”
As one constable reached the door the man they sought uttered a low animal cry, writhed himself partly up, and caught at the woman’s hands as she sank upon her knees at his side.
“Too—late,” said the man faintly, as he threw up his head and seemed to be speaking to someone invisible to those present. “Your—fault, your sin—a curse—a curse!”
Those present glanced at one another and then at the woman who knelt there silent and motionless, as if carved in stone.
They thought him dead, but he struggled faintly, and the woman held his head upon her arm, as his eyes slowly turned upon her, and a smile played round his pinched blue lips.
She shuddered, and her brow knit as she bent her head to hear his dying curse.
“Only a dog, and a dog’s death,” he whispered—“a wolf—in my blood—cursed—cursed. Gentlemen, too late; poison; I took it myself. An accident—I— Ah! No room for us both. Good-bye!—my—”