"Yes. She has promised to come and see you this afternoon. I would not allow her to come before," the inspector said. "From her statement, it seems that on leaving the house in Hyde Park Gate she and her father walked along Kensington Gore to the cab-rank outside the Albert Hall, and entering a hansom told the man to drive to the Buckingham Palace Hotel. Ten minutes later, when outside the Knightsbridge Barracks, Mr Miller complained of feeling very unwell, and attributed it to something he had eaten not being quite fresh. He told his daughter that he had a strange sensation down his spine, and that in his jaws were tetanic convulsions. She grew alarmed, but he declared that when he reached the hotel he would call a doctor. Five minutes later, however, he was in terrible agony, and the young lady ordered the cab to stop at the next chemist's. They pulled up before the one close to the corner of Sloane Street, but the gentleman was then in a state of collapse and unable to descend. The chemist saw the gravity of the case and told the man to drive on here--to this hospital. He accompanied the sufferer, who, before his arrival here, had breathed his last. The body was therefore taken to the mortuary, where a _post-mortem_ was held this morning. I've just left the doctor's. They say that he has died of some neurotic poison, in all probability the akazza bean, a poison whose reactions must resemble those of strychnia--in all probability the same as was administered to you." "Poor Miller!" I exclaimed, for even though he were a thief he possessed certain good qualities, and was always chivalrous where women were concerned. "Could nothing be done to save him?" "All was done that could possibly be done. The chemist at Knightsbridge gave him all he could to resuscitate him, but without avail. He had taken such a large dose that he was beyond human aid from the very first. The doctors are only surprised that he could walk so far before feeling the effects of the poison." "It was a vendetta--a fierce and terrible revenge," I said, in wonder who that man Himes might be. That he owed a grudge against Miller and his accomplices was plain, but for what reason was a mystery. "A vendetta!" exclaimed one of the detectives who had been listening to our conversation. "For what?" "The reason is an enigma," I replied, with quick presence of mind. "When I accused him of poisoning me, he merely laughed and said he would serve all Miller's friends in the same way. It was the more extraordinary, as I had not known the fellow more than four or five hours." "And you were not previously acquainted with him?" asked the detective. "Never saw him before in my life," I declared. "Well, you've had a jolly narrow squeak of it," the plain-clothes officer remarked. "Whatever he put into Miller's drink was carefully measured to produce death within a certain period, while that given to you was perhaps not quite such a strong dose."