the sign he made and stepped towards him. Instantly he greeted me with the whisper:
"You seem to be the only sober man here. Don't let them do anything till Mr. Leighton comes in. He is the saint of the family, sir."
"Is he the little girl's father?" I asked.
The man nodded. "And a good man, too," he insisted. "A very good man."
Was this honest judgment or sarcasm? I had heard that each of Mr. Gillespie's sons had given his father no end of trouble.
Meantime a silence deeper than that of awe had spread throughout the house. Feeling myself out of place and yet strangely in place, I drew aside into as inconspicuous a corner as I could find, and waited as all the others did, for the family physician.
While doing so I caught stray glimpses of my first acquaintance, Alfred Gillespie, who, fretted by some anxiety he could not altogether conceal, came more than once into the hall and threw furtive glances up the stairway. Was it the little girl he was concerned about? If so, I shared his anxiety.
At last the bell rang. Instantly, so great was the strain upon us, we all moved, and one or two bounded towards the door. But it was opened by the butler with that mechanical habitude such old servants acquire, and, though nothing could shake the calm deference of this trained domestic, there was something in the bow with which he greeted the newcomer which assured us that the man we so anxiously expected had arrived.
I had seen Dr. Bennett more than once, but never before showing so much anxiety. Whether from shock or some secret cause not to be communicated to us, this old and capable physician seemed to be in a condition of as much agitation as ourselves, and obeyed the summons of the young doctor who stood beckoning to him from the threshold of the little den, with an appearance of alacrity that nevertheless had an odd element of hesitation in it. I might not have noticed this under other circumstances, and am quite sure that no one else detected any peculiarity in his manner, but to me, everything was important which offered anything like a clue to the proper understanding of a situation in which I found myself so deeply, yet so secretly involved.
Mr. Gillespie's physician remained for some minutes closeted with the sons of the deceased and their young medical friend; then he came out. Instantly I saw from his expression that our fears or rather, those of the young doctor, were not without foundation. Yet he was careful not to raise an alarm, and in addressing us, spoke in strictly professional tones:
"A sad case, gentlemen! Mr. Gillespie has taken an overdose of chloral. We will have to leave him where he is till the coroner can be called."
A gasp followed by the clink of breaking glass came from the dining-room behind me. The old butler had dropped a glass he had just lifted off the mantel-shelf of the dining-room.
The doctor was at his side in a moment.
"What is that?" he demanded.
The butler stooped for the pieces.
"Only the glass Mr. Gillespie drank out of. He asked for wine a half hour ago. Your words frightened me, sir."
He did not look frightened; but old servants of his stamp possess a strange immobility.
"I will pick up these pieces," said the doctor, stooping beside the man.
The butler drew back. Dr. Bennett picked up the pieces. They were all dry. Evidently the glass had been drained.
As he came out he cast a keen but not unkindly glance at the group of young men drawn up in the doorway.
"Which of you was the witness of Mr. Gillespie's death?" he asked.
I bowed. I dreaded his questions, yet saw no way of evading them. If only Mr. Gillespie had been able to articulate the one word which would have relieved me of all further responsibility in this matter!
"You are the person who was called into the house by Mr. Gillespie's grandchild?" the doctor now asked, meeting my eye with the same expression of instantaneous and complete confidence I had seen on the features of his unhappy patient.
"I am," I replied; and proceeded to relate the circumstances with all the simplicity the occasion required. Only I said nothing about the letter which had been entrusted to me for delivery to some unknown person. How could I? There had been no encouragement in Mr. Gillespie's expression when I asked him if the note I had taken from him was meant for his doctor.
The account I was able to give of the deceased broker's last moments seemed to deepen the impression which had been made upon the physician by the condition in which he found him. Taking up the pieces of glass he had collected from the dining-room hearth, he sniffed them carefully, during which act the two sons of Mr. Gillespie watched him with starting eyes. When he laid them down again, we could none of us conceal our curiosity.
"You have something dreadful to communicate," murmured the elder son.
The doctor hesitated; then he glanced from one to the other of the two handsome faces before him, and remarked:
"Your brother is not here. Do you know if he is likely to return soon?"
"Where is Mr. Leighton?" inquired Alfred, turning towards the servants. "I thought he meant to remain home to-night."
The butler respectfully advanced.
"Mr. Leighton went out an hour ago," said he. "He and Mr. Gillespie had a few words in the den, sir, after which he put on his hat and coat and went out."
"Did you see your master at that time?"
"No, sir, I only heard his voice."
"Did that sound natural?"
The old servant seemed loath to reply, but feeling the doctor's eye resting imperatively upon him, he hesitatingly admitted:
"It wasn't quiet, sir, if you mean that. Mr. Gillespie seemed to be angry or very much displeased. He spoke quite loud."
"Where were you?"
"In the dining-room, sir, putting away the last of the dinner dishes."
"Did you hear what your master said?"
"No, sir; it was something about religion; too much religion."
"My brother attends too many mission services to please my father," explained Alfred in a low tone.
The doctor heard, but did not take his eye from the old servant.
"Was this before he took the glass of wine you have just told us he asked for?"
"Yes, sir, just before. It was Mr. Leighton who came for it. He said his father looked tired."
"Ah, and how came the glass to be back then on the dining-room mantel-shelf?"
"I don't know, sir. Perhaps Mr. Gillespie put it there himself. He never liked any litter on his study table, sir."
At this statement the older brother opened his lips, but I noticed he did not speak. There were no traces of intoxication about him now.
"I wish you would show me the bottle from which you poured the wine."
The butler, whose name I afterwards learned to be Hewson, led the way to a large buffet extending half across the dining-room wall. From where I stood in the hall-way I could see him
