And what did he say? what could he say at a moment like this? Listen and gauge the evil in the man, for it is deep as his avarice and relentless as his purpose to enjoy the riches which he considers his due. He is standing by a cabinet, the cabinet on the left of the room, and his hand is in a long and narrow drawer. "What is this?" (Mark the surprise in his tone.) "A packet labelled _Poison_? This is a strange thing to find lying about in an open drawer. _Poison!_ I wonder what use brother Cavanagh had for poison?" He pauses; was it because he had heard a moan or cry break from the spot where Hermione crouched against the wall? No, there was silence there, a deep and awful silence, which ought to have made the flesh creep upon his bones, but which, instead, seemed to add a greater innocence to his musing tones. "I suppose it was what was left after some old experiment. It is very dangerous stuff. I should not like to drop these few grains of white powder upon my tongue, unless I wanted to be rid of all my troubles. Guess I had better shake the paper out of the window, or those girls will come across it some day, and may see that word Poison and be moved by it. Life in this house hasn't many attractions." Any sound now from that dim, distant corner? No, silence is there still; deadly silence. He smiles darkly, and speaks again; very low now, but oh, how clearly! "But what business is it of mine? I find poison in this drawer, and I leave it where I find it, and shut the drawer. It may be wanted for rats, and it is always a mistake for old folks to meddle. But I should like to; I'd like to throw this same innocent-looking white powder out of the window; it makes _me_ afraid to think of it lying shut up here in a drawer so easily opened---- My child! Hermione!" he suddenly shrieked, "what do you want?" She was standing before him, a white and terrible figure. "Nothing," came from her set lips, in a low and even tone; but she laid one hand upon the drawer he had half shut and with the other pointed to the door. He shrank from her, appalled perhaps at his work; perhaps at her recognition of it. "Don't," he feebly protested, shaking with terror, or was it with a hideous anxiety? "There is poison in that drawer; do not open it." "Go for my sister," was the imperious command. "I have no use for you here, but for her I have." "You won't open that drawer," he prayed, as he retreated before her eyes in frightened jerks and breathless pauses. "I tell you I do not need you," she repeated, her hand still on the drawer, her form rigid, her face blue-white and drawn.