And even then he held back. The thought of sacrificing the poor cat was really painful to him. He looked upon it--so trustful and so contented in his company, so full of life and sport, the puss he had played with and fondled and fed for so long a time--for years. Could he kill it? He hoped he would not. Perhaps, after all, the wine was as innocent as the dew of heaven. He had in his room a cup and saucer. The saucer he took, and into it poured a little of the wine. He touched his tongue to it, but could perceive no unpleasant taste--Ah!--Wait!--By and by he was sensible of a puckering effect, together with a slight prickling, which he had not experienced at first. In fact, he was very sure that he might have drunk a full goblet of it without tasting the false tang. However, he placed the saucer on the floor, and the cat came to it at once and began to lap it up. It lapped up not quite half of it, and stopped. Presently it lapped a little more; then stopped again and went away and lay down. Had puss drunk enough, or was the taste of the beverage unpleasant? After a time Percy took the saucer and set it down close to the cat’s nose, but she would not touch it. When he found that pussy could not be persuaded to drink any more he took up the vessel, and, by the exercise of a little care, succeeded in pouring the wine that remained in it back into the bottle. He had done this and was in the act of setting the bottle away on the mantel, when a low, painful wail from the cat attracted his attention, and on looking down he saw the poor creature already in spasms. But it did not suffer long, for which the experimenter was profoundly thankful. Within a minute from the time of the first symptom of trouble its life was at an end. Percy Maitland stood looking upon the dead cat, and thought. What should he do? That an attempt had been made to destroy--to murder him--he simply knew; and he knew, too, that his mother had been knowing to it. Aye, she had actively lent her hand to aid in its accomplishment. Why--why--was Ralph Tryon so bitter toward him? Why did he hate him with such deadly hatred? “It can not be because he thinks I will betray him,” the youth thought aloud. “He has hated me from the first. The first time I ever set eyes on him, when he saw how I watched and studied him--when he saw perhaps that his appearance had puzzled me--even then he hated me and could have killed me, I verily believe, with a good relish.” And then he gave thought again to his mother. What should he do? Should he let her know of the dreadful discovery he had made? He had not the heart to do it. He knew not how he should meet her. Yet she must know it, sooner or later. It could not be kept from her a great while. Of course he must leave the cottage. It could be no longer a home for him. Also, he must see old Donald, and make an arrangement with him for the immediate transmission of intelligence of the return of Tryon.