When Nell had read to the last word, the Squire made no comment aloud, only to himself he murmured: "_Mors ultima linea rerum est_." He had not opened his Horace for years, but the line came back to him quite freshly to-day. He knew that he was a doomed man, and that no earthly power could save him. Well, according to all human calculations he ought to have been dead and buried a number of weeks ago, but another brief spell of life had been granted him, and if, through a tragic misfortune which no one could have foreseen, it had come prematurely to a close, why, there was no help for it. All that was now left him to do was to wrap his toga about him and await the end with silent stoicism. Although he took the two remaining doses of the drug in due course, he made no attempt to rise from his bed after hearing of Dinkel's death. From that hour life, with its manifold interests, became to him as a dead letter. He had done with it, and it had done with him. They were quits. So, day after day and night after night, he lay in the big four poster, silent for the most part, and often without opening his eyes for hours together; feeling his strength ebbing imperceptibly away, and, between his fitful snatches of sleep, thinking, ever thinking, for his mind remained as vigorous and lucid as ever it had been. What strange and awesome thoughts must oftentimes have been his as he lay there in grim resolute silence, waiting for his "order of release"! His niece and Andry Luce took it in turns to watch by him. It was an easy task, there was so little that he wanted or that could be done for him. Miss Baynard had taken it on herself to send for Drs Banks and Mills, who responded to the summons in all haste. The Squire opened his eyes and favored them with one of his sardonic smiles as they entered the room. "Eh-eh! come to see the last of your handiwork?" he said, and already his voice had sunk to a half-whisper. "Very kind and attentive of you, I'm sure. And besides, my case is such an interesting and uncommon one. It will be something for you to wrangle over as long as you live, and at the end you will know no more about it than you do now. Yes, yes, very kind and attentive of you; but as for your physic, I'll have no more on't--that's flat. Throw it to the dogs, as Shakespeare says. And now, 'I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.'" Of course they could do nothing, and to Miss Baynard they were candid enough to admit as much. It was a sad state of things. And so the muffled hours stole after each other one by one till a week had gone by, by which time it became evident that the end was not far off. No arrest had yet been made in connection with the murder of Cornelius Dinkel, and it may here be added that none ever was made. The murderer had left no traces behind him, and, search as diligently as they might, not a tittle of evidence was forthcoming to back up any of the theories propounded by the authorities in relation to the crime.