trap, the point of the poisoned pin had scratched him, and death, horrible and rapid, had supervened. That was the end of him.
The whole story was now clear. A mother, jealous, vindictive and greedy for wealth; a mother who loved her own son and hated her husband's child had brought this about—and, I felt sure, a son who suspected his mother.
I pictured her that night when Francis arrived, desperate and half-insane, going to the tower-room with this pin, its point prepared with the curare poison, and sewing it into the pillow, feeling sure that the young officer would die before his father, and that her son would become Sir Anthony Laurence.
How frightful must have been her feelings when her son was arrested for her crime. Again, how harried her conscience when the question arose as to which of the twain had died first, and finally, how hopeless and useless her dreadful crime, when she found out that there was another heir to the property and title.
No wonder that her nervous system had given way; but I very much doubt if the cause of the death of Francis Laurence would ever have been elucidated unless the word curare had dropped from her lips in delirium.
