“I regret to say, madam,” I answered, “that I find myself unable to believe you at present. But there is a simple way of giving credence to your story. You state that you did not exchange the bottles. This liquid, then, is the medicine prescribed by me, and it is harmless. Oblige me by drinking it.” And I held the glass towards her. She took it. “Fool!” I said to myself, as soon as her fingers had grasped it. “She will drop it on the floor, and an invaluable piece of evidence will be destroyed.” But she did not drop it on the floor. She drank it at one gulp, and looked me in the eyes, and murmured, “Now do you believe me?” “Yes,” I said. And I did. At the same moment her face changed colour, and she sank to the ground. “What have I drunk?” she moaned. The glass rolled on the carpet, unbroken. Miss Russell had in fact drunk a full dose of pure trinitrin. I recognised all the symptoms at once. I rang for assistance. I got a stomach pump. I got ice, and sent for ergot and for atropine. I injected six minims of the Injectis Ergotini Hypodermica. I despaired of saving her; but I saved her, after four injections. I need not describe to you all the details. Let it suffice that she recovered. “Then you did exchange the bottles?” I could not help putting this question to her as soon as she was in a fit state to hear it. “I swear to you that I had not meant to,” she whispered. “In my nervousness I must have confused them. You have saved Adelaide’s life.” “I have saved yours, anyway,” I said. “But you believe me?” “Yes,” I said; and the curious thing is that I did believe her. I was convinced, and I am convinced, that she did not mean to exchange the bottles. “Listen!” she exclaimed. We could hear Big Ben striking twelve. “Midnight,” I said. She clutched my hand with a swift movement. “Go and see that my Adelaide lives,” she cried almost hysterically. I opened the door between the two rooms and went into the sleeping chamber. “Miss Spanton is dozing quietly,” I said, on my return. “Thank God!” Miss Russell murmured. And then old bald-headed Mr. Dancer came into the room, blandly unconscious of all that had passed during his sojourn in the smoking saloon. When I left the precincts of the Grand Babylon at one o’clock, the guests were beginning to leave the Gold Rooms, and the great courtyard was a scene of flashing lights, and champing horses, and pretty laughing women. “What a queer place a hotel is!” I thought. Neither Mr. Grist nor the mysterious maid was seen again in London. Possibly they consoled each other. The beautiful Adelaide Spanton--under my care, ahem!--is completely restored to health. Yes, I am going to marry her. No, not the beautiful Adelaide, you duffers--besides she is too young for my middle age--but Miss Russell. Her Christian name is Ethel. Do you not like it? As for the beautiful Adelaide, there is now a viscount in the case. THE POLICE STATION.