foot of the bed was the wretched Fernie, his face blue-black, and puffed out almost beyond recognition; froth issued from his swollen lips, while the thin but sinewy hands of his master still convulsively gripped the bruised and discoloured neck of his victim.
Sir Richard Nanson, with hair dishevelled, and clothed only in a long, white night shirt, was kneeling on the bed, one knee on each side of the dead man, and as I looked he stared at me with an expression I can only describe as being like that of a maddened, half-famished cat, who has just caught a bird, and fears that it is going to be taken from him.
There was no sign of recognition in his wild, bloodshot eyes, and he made no movement, only that he looked about him quickly, savagely, and furtively, as if watching to see that no one came to take his prey from him.
It was quite evident that Fernie was dead, and that his destroyer was suffering from acute and dangerous mania.
"No doubt about the action of muscarin and curare," I told myself; "but I must certainly have more experience before I use them again; evidently the mixture was wrong, or I gave too big a dose."
The police were sent for, and ultimately Sir
