“In the dining-room,” said I, nodding towards the window. . . .
He stepped towards it. At that moment I heard a dull thud within the room, and Mr. Rogers, his foot already on the threshold, drew back with a cry. I ran to his elbow.
On the floor, stretched at her master’s feet, lay the negress Rosa. Dr. Beauregard stood by the corner of the table, and poured himself a small glassful of curacoa. While we gazed at him he reached out a hand to the icebowl, selected a small piece, and dropped it delicately into the glass. I heard it tingle against the rim.
“Your good health, sirs!” said Dr. Beauregard.
He sat back rigid in his chair.