"I—I feel very strange," he cried, with difficulty. "A most curious sensation has come over me—a sensation as if—as if—ah! heavens! Help, help!—I—I can't breathe!"
The mild-mannered parson jumped to his feet, and stood before his friend, watching the hideous contortions of his face.
"Assistance!" his victim gasped, sinking inertly back in the high-backed Windsor arm-chair. "Fetch me a doctor—quick."
But the man addressed took no heed of the appeal. He stood calmly by, contemplating with satisfaction his villainous work.
"Can't you see—I'm ill?" the dying man cried in a feeble, piteous voice. "My throat and head are burning. Give me water—water!"
Still the spy remained motionless.
"You—you refuse to assist me—you scoundrel! Ah!" he cried hoarsely, in dismay. "Ah! I see it all now! God! You've poisoned me!"
With a frantic effort he half-raised himself in his chair, but fell back in a heap; his arms hanging helplessly at his side. His breath came and went in short hard gasps; the death-rattle was already in his throat, and with one long deep-drawn sigh the last breath left the body, and the light gradually died out of the agonised face.
Quick as thought the Count unbuttoned the dead man's coat, and searching his pockets took out a large white official envelope bearing in the corner the blue stamp of the Admiralty. It was addressed to "Sir Michael Culme-Seymour, Admiral commanding the Channel Squadron," and was marked "Private."
"Good!" ejaculated the spy, as he tore open the envelope. "I was not mistaken, after all! He was waiting until the flagship came into the Downs to deliver it."