Occupied with the strange chance of escape, Peckover had for the moment forgotten all about his drugged wine. As his eye followed Quorn's unsteady finger, he went cold, and his knees knocked together. In a flash he saw his effective way of escape cut off and--what was worse--his own predicament intensified a thousand-fold. "You've never drunk that?" he gasped, when his dry tongue could articulate. "I have though," Quorn replied, regarding him with fearful suspicion. Peckover clasped his head and staggered forward. "You're a dead man," he exclaimed hoarsely. "Scott! What do you mean?" cried Quorn, going pale. "It was--doctored," stammered the other, hardly knowing what he said. "Poison?" demanded Quorn in a horrified tone, clutching fiercely at Peckover who dodged, as frightened as he. Then he gave a laugh of desperation. "Well, yes, if you like to call it so. It's as good as murder," he assured himself in a woeful whisper. "What am I to do?" He ran to the window, but was arrested by a cry from his companion, and turned to see him collapse in a chair. "Here, wake up! Stand up! You'll be all right," he cried, desperately shaking him. "Oh, I do feel queer," muttered Quorn. The irises of his eyes seemed to turn up into his head, and he fell forward on the table insensible, with his too liberal entertainer standing over him aghast. What was he to do? If he called for help, everything would come out, and he would be taken red-handed. "He's done for, poor fellow," he told himself in a terrified whisper, trembling in every joint. "He's a dead man. I'd better follow him." He caught up the fatal glass, but it was empty. "Not a drop left. Ah, there will be another sort of drop for me," he whispered through his chattering teeth. "What shall I do?" Then his face sensibly brightened as the idea of his desperate expedient, which had been frightened away, came back to him. "Ah, that's it!" he muttered. "That's my only chance. They think I'm Lord Quorn. Now is my real tip to be Lord Quorn. No one here knows him, and he's not so very unlike Percy Peckover. Quick!" He ran to the window and pulled the curtains across; then hurried back and began feverishly searching the lifeless man's pockets. "Any papers to identify him? Ah!" He pulled out a packet of letters, and transferred them to his own pocket, replacing them by some bills and a writ. [Illustration: "He pulled out a packet of letters, and transferred them to his own pocket."] "That's it," he muttered. "They're of no use to him now, and may save an innocent man from the gallows." He set the empty phial into Quorn's limp hand. "There!" he exclaimed, as with a long drawn sigh of desperate relief he surveyed the position. "Percy Peckover is dead. Long live Lord Quorn! It's a fair desperate shift; but I can't be worse off than I was, and I may be better." CHAPTER IX