He stepped towards it. At that moment I heard a dull thud within the room, and Mr. Rogers, his foot already on the threshold, drew back with a cry. I ran to his elbow. On the floor, stretched at her master's feet, lay the negress Rosa. Dr. Beauregard stood by the corner of the table, and poured himself a small glassful of curacoa. While we gazed at him he reached out a hand to the icebowl, selected a small piece, and dropped it delicately into the glass. I heard it tingle against the rim. "Your good health, sirs!" said Dr. Beauregard. He sat back rigid in his chair. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's Poison Island, by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (Q)