Then, Brown, the light suddenly dawned upon me. I was a theoretical student of toxicology, and knew as much about poison, and more, than most men. My thoughts at once went back to that gruesome, unnatural figure on the bed in the tower-room. Francis had died of poison—and that poison was undoubtedly curare!
"Phew! What a fool I was not to think of it before," I said to myself. "I can see it all now."
"Does she talk of curare?" I inquired.
"She speaks of little else at present," replied the nurse. "Curare, poison, death, convulsions, needles—her mind seems to run in a circle."
"Needles," I repeated. "Needles!" and then went with the nurse and listened outside the door of the sick room.
Next morning I went by the first train back to the Laurences' house, and at once made my way to the tower-room, which had been left entirely undisturbed since the young fellow's horrible death.
First I carefully examined the sofa-couch at the foot of the bed; there was only one cushion on this, and that I left alone. Next, the big padded easy chair had to be over-
