At least that is one test for its
presence."

"Ergot!" repeated Dr. Leslie, reaching for a book on a shelf above him.
Turning the pages hurriedly, he read, "There has been no experience in
the separation of the constituents of ergot from the organs of the body.
An attempt might be made by the Dragendorff process, but success is
doubtful."

"Dragendorff found it so, at any rate," put in Dr. Blythe positively.

Running his fingers over the backs of the other books, Dr. Leslie
selected another. "It is practically impossible," he read, "to separate
ergot from the tissues so as to identify it."

"Absolutely," asserted Dr. Blythe quickly.

I looked from one physician to the other. Was this the "safe" poison at
last?

Kennedy said nothing and I fell to wondering why, too, Dr. Blythe was so
positive. Was it merely to vindicate his professional pride at the
failure he and the Coroner had had so far with the case?

"I suppose you have no objection to my taking some of this sample of the
contents of the organs of her body, have you?" asked Craig at length of
Dr. Leslie.

"None in the world," replied the Coroner.

Kennedy poured out some of the liquid into a bottle, corked it
carefully, and we stood for a few moments longer chatting over the
developments, or rather lack of developments of the case.

It was late when we returned to our apartment, but the following morning
Kennedy was up long before I was. I knew enough of him, however, to know
that I would find him at his laboratory breakfastless, and my deduction
was correct.

It was not until the forenoon that Craig had completed the work he had
set himself to do as he puzzled over something in the interminable
litter of tubes and jars, bottles and beakers, reagents, solutions, and
precipitates.

"I'm going to drop in at Jacot's," he announced finally, laying off his
threadbare and acid-stained coat and pulling on the clothes more fitted
for civilization.

Having no objection, but quite the contrary, I hastened to accompany
him. Jacot's was a well-known shop. It opened on Fifth Avenue, just a
few feet below the sidewalk, and Jacot himself was a slim Frenchman,
well preserved, faultlessly dressed.

"I am the agent of Mr. Morehouse, the Western mine-owner and
connoisseur," introduced Kennedy, as we entered the shop. "May I look
around?"

"Certainement,--avec plaisir, M'sieur," welcomed the suave dealer, with
both hands interlocked. "In what is Mr. Morehouse most