“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.

THE END.