f
fascinated. He approached it, magnetized by some spell of his own
thoughts' weaving, until he could have stretched out his hand and
touched it. A pause, and with a sudden swift revulsion of feeling, he
turned from it in a sort of horror and went to the center-table. There
he stood for a moment, glanced back at the chair, then quickly about
the room, his eyes passing unseeingly over the shadowy figure by the
bookcase. Then he darted back to the chair and thrust his hand deep
into the fold between the back and seat. For a minute he felt about
with frenzied haste, until his fingers touched the object he sought,
and with a profound sigh of relief he drew it forth--a tiny flat
vial.

He glanced at it casually, his hand already raised toward his
breast-pocket; then he recoiled with a low, involuntary cry. The vial
was filled with a sinister blood-red fluid.

At that moment Blaine stepped from behind the bookcase and confronted
him.

"You have succeeded in regaining your bottle, haven't you, Mr.
Rockamore?" he asked, significantly. "Are you surprised to find within
it the blood of an innocent man?"

Rockamore turned to him slowly, his dazed, horror-stricken eyes
protruding more than ever.

"Blood?" he repeated, thickly, as if scarcely understanding. Then a
realization of the situation dawned upon him, and he demanded,
hoarsely: "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"My name is Blaine, and I am here to arrest the murderer of Pennington
Lawton," the detective replied, his dominant tones ringing through the
room.

"Blaine--Henry Blaine!" Rockamore stepped back a pace or two, and a
sneer curled his thin lips, although his face had suddenly paled.
"I've heard of you, of course--the international meddler! What sort of
sensation are you trying to work up now, my man, by such a ridiculous
assertion? Pennington Lawton--murdered! Why, all the world knows that
he died of heart-disease!"

"All the world seldom knows the truth, but it shall, in this
instance," returned Blaine, trenchantly. "Pennington Lawton was
murdered--poisoned by a draught of prussic acid."

"You're mad!" Rockamore retorted, insolently. He tossed the
incriminating little vial carelessly on the blotter of the writing-desk,
and when he turned again to the detective his face, with its high,
thin, hooked nose and close-drawn brows, was vulture-like in its
malevolent intensity. "You don't deserve serious consideration! If
you make public such a ridiculous