"Anything I can do to help you will be done," replied the detective. With that they dropped the subject, and more carefully scrutinized the room. To all intents and purposes Sir Charles Dyke might, indeed, have brought about the catastrophe inadvertently. The sleeping-draught bore the ledger number of its prescription, and there is nothing unusual in a patient striving to help the cautious dose ordered by a physician by the addition of a more powerful nostrum. His partly dressed state, too, argued that he had taken the fatal mixture at a time when he contemplated retiring to rest forthwith. A fire still burned in the grate. On the mantelpiece--in a position where the baronet must see it until the moment when all things faded from his vision--was a beautiful miniature of his wife. The detective, with professional nonchalance, soon sat down. There was nothing to do but await the arrival of the doctor, and, having heard his report, go home. In the quietude of the room, with the strain relaxed, Bruce was profoundly moved by the spectacle of his dead friend. Whatever his logical faculties might argue, he could not regard this man as a murderer. If Lady Dyke met her death at his hand then it must have been the result of some terrible mistake--of some momentary outburst of passion which never contemplated such a sequel. Poisons which kill by stupefaction do not distort their victims as in cases where violent irritants are used. Sir Charles Dyke seemed to live in a deep sleep, exhausted by toil or pain--sleep the counterfeit of death--while the bright colors and speaking eyes of the miniature counterfeited life. Standing between these two--both the mere images of the man and the woman he had known so well--the barrister insensibly felt that at last they had peace. It was his first experience of the tremendous change in the relationship established by death. It utterly overpowered him. No mere words could express his emotions. Between him and those that had been was imposed the impenetrable wall of eternity. A bustle in the hall beneath aroused him from his grief-stricken stupor, and Mr. White's commonplace tones sounded strange to his ears. "Here's the doctor." A well-known physician hastened to the room. Thompson had carefully followed instructions. The doctor was not prepared for the condition of affairs that a glance revealed to his practised eye. "Surely he is not dead?" he cried, looking from the form in the chair to the two men. Bruce answered him: "Yes, for some hours, I fear, but we wanted to avoid spreading unnecessary rumors until--" "I understand. My poor friend! How came this to happen?" The skilled practitioner merely lifted one of the dead man's eyelids, and then turned to examine the bottles on the table. "My own prescription," he said, after tasting the contents of one phial. "Ah, this was bad; why did he not consult me?" and he sadly shook his head as he tasted the remaining liquid in the second.