If the moment of examining the papers was longed for by the impatient Quackinboss with an almost feverish anxiety, what was his blank disappointment at finding that, instead of being the smart squibs or bitter invectives he delighted in, the whole box was devoted to documents relating to a curious incident in medical jurisprudence, and was labelled on the inner side of the lid, “Hawke's case, with all the tests and other papers.” “This seems to have been a great criminal case,” said Alfred, “and it must have deeply interested my father, for he has actually drawn out a narrative of the whole event, and has even journalized his share in the story. “'Strange scene that I have just left,' wrote he, in a clear, exact hand. 'A man very ill--seriously, dangerously ill--in one room, and a party--his guests--all deeply engaged at play in the same house. No apparent anxiety about his case,--scarcely an inquiry; his wife--if she be his wife, for I have my misgivings about it--eager and feverish, following me from place to place, with a sort of irresolute effort to say something which she has no courage for. Patient worse,--the case a puzzling one; there is more than delirium tremens here. But what more? that's the question. Remarkable his anxiety about the sense of burning in the throat; ever asking, “Is that usual? is it invariable?” Suspicion, of course, to be looked for; but why does it not extend to _me_ also? Afraid to drink, though his thirst is excruciating. Symptoms all worse; pulse irregular; desires to see me alone; his wife, unwilling, tries by many pretexts to remain; he seems to detect her plan, and bursts into violent passion, swears at her, and cries out, “Ain't you satisfied? Don't you see that I 'm dying?”' “'We have been alone for above an hour. He has told me all; she is not his wife, but the divorced wife of a well-known man in office. Believes she intended to leave him; knows, or fancies he knows, her whole project. Rage and anger have increased the bad symptoms, and made him much worse. Great anxiety about the fate of his child, a daughter of his former wife; constantly exclaiming, “They will rob her! they will leave her a beggar, and I have none to protect her.” A violent paroxysm of pain--agonizing pain--has left him very low. “'“What name do you give this malady, doctor?” he asks me. “'“It is a gastric inflammation, but not unaccompanied by other symptoms.” “'“How brought on?” “'“No man can trace these affections to primary causes.” “'“I can,--here, at least,” breaks he in. “This is poison, and _you_ know it. Come, sir,” he cried, “be frank and honest with one whose moments are to be so few here. Tell me, as you would speak the truth in your last hour, am I not right?” “'“I cannot say with certainty. There are things here I am unable to account for, and there are traits which I cannot refer to any poisonous agency.” “'“Think over the poisons; you know best. Is it arsenic?” “'“No, certainly not.”