“It induces languor and drowsiness, and seems to deaden the pain. Its chief object is to insure a good night’s rest—nothing more.” “How many years have you been in the habit of taking this narcotic?” “At intervals, for a dozen years.” “You have therefore become habituated to the use of it?” “To a certain extent, yes.” “But if you, after twelve years’ practice, are in the habit of taking only fifteen drops, does it not strike you that that quantity was somewhat of an overdose for a man who had never taken anything of the kind before?” “It did not strike me as being so at the time. The prisoner is a strong and healthy man, and his headache was a very violent one.” “But, in any case, the general effect would be to induce a sense of extreme drowsiness, which, in a little while, would result in a dull, heavy sleep—a sleep so heavy and so dull that the sense of violent pain would be deadened, and even lost for the time being?” “Those are precisely the effects which might be expected.” “How soon, after a dose has been taken, does the feeling of drowsiness come on?” “In about a quarter of an hour.” “Suppose now, that after you had taken a dose of the narcotic, you wished, for some particular reason, to keep broad awake; suppose that you had some important business to transact—say, if you like, that you had a murder to commit—how would that be?” “I should find it utterly impossible to keep awake. The feeling of drowsiness induced is so intense that your whole and sole desire is to sleep: you feel as if you wanted to sleep for a month without waking.” Mr. Little, having scored a point, sat down, and Mr. St. George left the witness-box. As he was stepping down into the body of the court his eyes met the eyes of Lionel Dering for the first time that day. It was but for a moment, and then Kester’s head was turned deliberately away. But in that moment Lionel saw, or fancied that he saw, the self-same expression flash from his cousin’s eyes that he had seen in them that night, now many months ago, when they recognized each other across the crowd on Westminster Bridge—a look of cold, deadly, unquenchable hate, that nothing but death could cancel, with which, to-day, was mingled a look of scornful triumph that seemed to say, “My turn has come at last.” For one brief instant Lionel seemed to see his cousin’s soul stand unveiled and naked before him.