The surgeon was led into the next room, where a long and careful examination was made.
“No, Mr Chartley, no firearms here; the man has been poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” cried Hendon Chartley, turning to the table, and taking up one of the glasses to raise it to his nose, and then touch the liquid in the bottom with the tip of his finger and taste it. “Brandy,” he said, “only pure brandy.”
He set it down, and took up the second glass, which he smelt.
“Ha! there’s something here,” he cried; and dipping his finger again, he tasted it, and spat quickly two or three times, before passing the glass to the surgeon, who contented himself with raising it to his nostrils.
“Yes; Mr Chartley; no doubt about that,” he said. “How did all this come about?”
He turned to the young student, who looked at the sergeant, and the sergeant at John Whyley, while the latter stared stolidly at the surgeon.
“That’s what we’re going to see, sir,” said Whyley.
“Quite right, my man, quite right. Now, Mr Chartley, I can do no more here. I should like to have in a colleague in consultation over your father’s case. Nothing more can be done now. We will be here quite early.”
He gave a few directions as he passed through the consulting-room, and then son and daughter were left to their painful vigil, and the thick fog covered all as with a funeral pall.