“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Britt, but it isn’t so, whatever it is.”

“Good Lord, man, I wasn’t thinking that!”

A very significant fact now stared the occupants of the chateau in the face.  There was not the slightest doubt in the minds of those conversant with the situation that the poison had been intended for either Lord or Lady Deppingham.  The drug had been subtly, skilfully placed in one of the sandwiches which came up to their rooms at eleven o’clock, the hour at which they invariably drank off a cup of bouillon.  Lady Deppingham was not in her room when Bromley brought the tray.  She was on the gallery with the Brownes.  Bromley came to ask her if she desired to have the bouillon served to her there.  Lady Agnes directed her to fetch the tray, first inviting Mrs. Browne to accept Lord Deppingham’s portion.  Drusilla declined and Bromley tossed a sandwich to Pong, who was always lying in wait for such scraps as might come his way.  Lady Agnes always ate macaroons—­never touching the sandwiches.  This fact, of course, it was argued, might not have been known to the would-be poisoner.  Her ladyship, as usual, partook of the macaroons and felt no ill effects.  It was, therefore, clear that the poison was intended for but one of them, as, on this occasion, a single sandwich came up from the buffet.  No one but Deppingham believed that it was intended for him.

In any event, Pong, the red cocker, was dead.  He was in convulsions almost immediately after swallowing the morsel he had begged for, and in less than three minutes was out of his misery, proving conclusively that a dose of deadly proportions had been administered.  It is no wonder that Deppingham shuddered as he looked upon the stiff little body in the upper hall.

Drusilla Browne was jesting, no doubt, but it is doubtful if any one grasped the delicacy of her humour when she observed, in mock concern, addressing the assembled mourners, that she believed the heirs were trying to get rid of their incumbrances after the good old Borgia fashion, and that she would never again have the courage to eat a mouthful of food so long as she stood between her husband and a hymeneal fortune.

“You know, my dear,” she concluded, turning to her Husband, “that I might have had Lord Deppingham’s biscuit.  His wife asked me to take it.  Goodness, you’re a dreadful Borgia person, Agnes,” she went on, smiling brightly at her ladyship.  Deppingham was fumbling nervously at his monocle.  “I should think you would be nervous, Lord Deppingham.”

The most rigid questioning elicited no information from the servants.  Baillo’s sudden, involuntary look of suspicion, directed toward Lady Agnes and Robert Browne, did not escape the keen eye of Hollingsworth Chase.

“Impossible!” he said, half aloud.  He looked up and saw that the Princess was staring at him questioningly.  He shook his head, without thinking.