As Blanche went up the stairs with her tray, the library door was open, and she saw her master strapping a suit case. She stopped at the open door.
—"Please, sir, Tumpany wants to speak to you."
Lothian looked up. It was almost as if he had expected the housemaid.
"All right," he said. "He can come up in a moment. What have you got there—oh? The milk for your Mistress. Well, put it down on the table, and tell Tumpany to come up. Bring him up yourself, Blanche, and make him be quiet. We mustn't risk waking Mistress."
The housemaid put the tray down upon the writing table and left the room, closing the door after her.
It had hardly swung into place when Lothian had whipped open a drawer in the table.
Standing upon a pile of note-paper with its vermilion heading of "The Old House, Mortland Royal" was a square oil bottle with its silver plated top.
In a few twists of firm and resolute fingers, the top was loosened. The man took the bottle from the drawer and set it upon the tray, close to the glass of milk.
Then, with infinite care, he slowly withdrew the top.
The flattened needle which depended from it was damp with the dews of death. A tiny bead of crystalline liquid, no bigger than a pin's head, hung from the slanting point.