Yes, that would be the easiest way out of the difficulty. He shrank from the idea of suicide, but it was the only way to avoid two terrible deaths, by hanging and suffocation, so he saw that the only means of escape was to at once destroy the body of Roversmire. Thinking that such a contingency might occur--although it had come sooner than he expected--Adrian had provided himself with a phial of deadly poison, distilled from some rare Eastern herb, which he had found in the medicine-chest of Dr. Roversmire. He always carried it about with him, and now, producing it from his pocket, held it up towards the light. It contained a dark, ruby-coloured liquid, which he knew was swift to kill, as he had found a full description of its effects in the diary of the old Indian fakir. "Thank God!" he murmured to himself as he removed the stopper, "this will save me. Roversmire said suicide was punished bitterly in the spiritual world, but he surely cannot blame me for taking the life of his body in order to escape two terrible deaths. No! I have bitterly expiated the sins of Adrian Lancaster in this old body, and I will destroy it without fear of the consequence. It will at least restore me to my proper self and to the arms of the woman I love." At this moment the door was pushed roughly open and Dentham made his appearance in swaggering triumph. "Well," he said, rubbing his lean hands together, "have you made up your mind?" "Yes, I have," answered Adrian, holding the phial closely in his hand. "I have made up my mind not to give a scoundrel like you one penny." "Then I'll have you arrested," yelled Dentham, furious at seeing his chance of making money fading away. "You will not arrest me," replied his master with a strange smile, "for I will be far beyond the reach of your malice. Bring in your detectives as soon as you like, for they will only find a dead body." Dentham, seeing his intention, darted forward to stop him, with a cry of anger, but Adrian was too quick for him, and raising the phial to his lips, drank off the contents. The valet recoiled as he did so, for an awful change passed over the face of his master--the thin hands plucked wildly at the grey beard, and with a choking cry Dr. Roversmire fell down on the floor--dead. And the clock struck nine. Chapter XV. Resurgam