ly poisons. A few days ago the Countess visited him and secured
a small packet of the most deadly drug the man possesses."

Mr. Sabin sat quite still. He was unmoved.

"The Countess," Passmore continued, "shortly afterwards visited these
rooms. An hour after her departure Duson was dead. He died from drinking
out of your liqueur glass, into which a few specks of that powder,
invisible almost to the naked eye, had been dropped. At Dorset House
Reginald Brott was waiting for her. He left shortly afterwards in a
state of agitation."

"And from these things," Mr. Sabin said, "you draw, I presume, the
natural inference that Madame la Duchesse, desiring to marry her old
admirer, Reginald Brott, first left me in America, and then, since I
followed her here, attempted to poison me."

"There is," Passmore said, "a good deal of evidence to that effect."

"Here," Mr. Sabin said, handing him Duson's letter, "is some evidence to
the contrary."

Passmore read the letter carefully.

"You believe this," he asked, "to be genuine?"

Mr. Sabin smiled.

"I am sure of it!" he answered.

"You recognise the handwriting?"

"Certainly!"

"And this came into your possession--how?"

"I found it on the table by Duson's side."

"You intend to produce it at the inquest?"

"I think not," Mr. Sabin answered.

There was a short silence. Passmore was revolving a certain matter in
his mind--thinking hard. Mr. Sabin was apparently trying to make rings
of the blue smoke from his cigarette.

"Has it occurred to you," Passmore asked, "to wonder for what reason
your wife visited these rooms on the morning of Duson's death?"

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

"I cannot say that it has."

"She knew that you were not here," Passmore continued. "She left no
message. She came closely veiled and departed unrecognised." Mr. Sabin
nodded.

"There were reasons," he said, "for that. But when you say that she left
no message you are mistaken."

Passmore nodded.

"Go on," he said.

Mr. Sabin nodded towards a great vase of La France roses upon a side
table.

"I found these here on my return," he said, "and attached to them the
card which I believe is still there. Go and look at it."

Passmore rose and bent over the fragrant blossoms. The card still
remained, and on the back of it, in a delicate feminine handwriting:

"For my husband,
"with love from
"Lucil