That night they were sitting together in the private parlour behind the bar, smoking and chatting. It was an old-fashioned, smoke-begrimed room, with low oak ceiling and high wainscot,--a room in which many a seafarer had found rest and comfort after the toils and perils of the deep, a room in which many a stirring tale of the sea has been related, and in which one of our best-known nautical writers has gathered materials for his stirring ocean romances. Although next the bar, there is no entrance on that side, neither is there any glass, therefore the apartment is entirely secluded from the public portion of the inn. At midnight the hearty Boniface and his wife and servant had retired, and the place was silent, but the officer and his fellow-guest still sat with their pipes. The parson, as became one who exhibited the blue pledge of temperance in his coat, sipped his coffee, while the other had whisky, lemon, and a small jug of hot water beside him. The spy had been using the sugar, and the basin was close to his hand. His companion presently made a movement to reach it, when the pleasant-spoken vicar took up the tongs quickly, saying-- "Allow me to assist you. One lump?" "Yes, thanks," replied the other, holding his glass for the small cube to be thrown in. Then he added the lemon, whisky, and hot water. Beilstein, betraying no excitement, continued the conversation, calmly refilled his pipe, and watched his companion sip the deadly potion. Karl von Beilstein had reduced poisoning to a fine art. Not a muscle of his face contracted, though his keen eyes never left the other's countenance. They talked on, the Commander apparently unaffected by the draught; his friend smilingly complacent and confident. Suddenly, without warning, the officer's face grew ashen pale and serious. A violent tremor shook his stalwart frame. "I--I feel very strange," he cried, with difficulty. "A most curious sensation has come over me--a sensation as if--as if--ah! heavens! Help, help!--I--I can't breathe!" The mild-mannered parson jumped to his feet, and stood before his friend, watching the hideous contortions of his face. "Assistance!" his victim gasped, sinking inertly back in the high-backed Windsor arm-chair. "Fetch me a doctor--quick." But the man addressed took no heed of the appeal. He stood calmly by, contemplating with satisfaction his villainous work. "Can't you see--I'm ill?" the dying man cried in a feeble, piteous voice. "My throat and head are burning. Give me water--_water_!" Still the spy remained motionless. "You--you refuse to assist me--you scoundrel! Ah!" he cried hoarsely, in dismay. "Ah! I see it all now! _God! You've poisoned me!_"