“Poor Miller!” I exclaimed, for even though he were a thief he possessed certain good qualities, and was always chivalrous where women were concerned. “Could nothing be done to save him?”
“All was done that could possibly be done. The chemist at Knightsbridge gave him all he could to resuscitate him, but without avail. He had taken such a large dose that he was beyond human aid from the very first. The doctors are only surprised that he could walk so far before feeling the effects of the poison.”
“It was a vendetta—a fierce and terrible revenge,” I said, in wonder who that man Himes might be. That he owed a grudge against Miller and his accomplices was plain, but for what reason was a mystery.
“A vendetta!” exclaimed one of the detectives who had been listening to our conversation. “For what?”
“The reason is an enigma,” I replied, with quick presence of mind. “When I accused him of poisoning me, he merely laughed and said he would serve all Miller’s friends in the same way. It was the more extraordinary, as I had not known the fellow more than four or five hours.”
“And you were not previously acquainted with him?” asked the detective.
“Never saw him before in my life,” I declared.
“Well, you’ve had a jolly narrow squeak of it,” the plain-clothes officer remarked. “Whatever he put into Miller’s drink was carefully measured to produce death within a certain period, while that given to you was perhaps not quite such a strong dose.”
“No. I only took one drink out of my glass. Miller, I remember, swallowed his at one gulp just before leaving. It was his final whisky, and Himes mixed them both with his own hand.”
“He had two objects, you see, in inducing you to stay behind, first to prevent you both being struck down together, and secondly he intended that it should appear that you had committed suicide. Miss Miller does not recollect the number of the house—do you?”