"It is for that reason that I changed my mind. As you know I have been attending upon Mrs. Dallas this week, and I saw plainly enough that my case was hopeless; that the girl was dying to marry Alymer. Besides," added Etwald, carelessly, "the mother was not on my side." "She wants Isabella to marry David." "So I hear; and he is in town, as Mr. Alymer told me to-night. But what are you going to do about the matter, major?" "Give notice to the police." "There will be a post-mortem, of course," said Etwald, carelessly. "No, no! I hope not," cried Jen, horrified at the idea. "But there must be," insisted Etwald, cruelly. "Alymer died of poison, and it must be proved that such was the case. Then we may learn if he perished from the poison of the devil-stick. Afterward you must get a detective to search for the person who stole it from your smoking-room. Once he or she is found, and the assassin of your poor friend will be in custody." "'He or she,'" repeated Jen, slowly. "Dido I mentioned; but 'he!' who is 'he?'" "Ah, that is what we wish to find out," said the doctor, gravely. "But how do I know? Battersea may be the thief." "The thief and the murderer!" "Well, no, major. On second thought I do not think it is wise to couple those two words as yet. The thief may not be the murderer, and--but what can I say?" broke off Etwald, suddenly. "As yet we know nothing. It is late, now, major, and I must get back. Shall I give information to the police?" "If you will be so kind," said the major, listlessly, and he let the doctor go away without another word. All through that long night he knelt beside the bed upon which lay the corpse of the man whom he had loved as a son. The bedroom of Maurice was on the ground floor and the windows looked out onto a little lawn, which was girdled by thick trees in which the nightingales were singing. The sorrowful songs of the birds, flitting in the moonlight and amid the cloistral dusk of the trees, seemed to Jen like a requiem over the young life which had passed away. The major was broken-hearted by the sorrow which had come upon him, and when he issued from the chamber of death he looked years older than when he entered it. It seemed to his big loving heart as though the woman he loved had died anew in the person of her son. Fortunately he was not forced to sorrow alone; toward midday David arrived from town, filled with grief and surprise at the untimely end of Maurice. He found the major in the library, and grasped him by the hand with genuine sorrow. "My poor uncle," he said in a low voice. "I cannot tell you what I feel. Etwald telegraphed to me the first thing in the morning, and I came down by the earliest train there was. Poor Maurice!--and we parted in anger." "More's the pity," sighed Jen, leaning upon the shoulder of Sarby; "but you cherish no anger in your heart now?" "God forbid, sir!"