"Just as you say," remarked Roland, drawing up his chair again. Stratton took the package, and looked it over carefully. It was certainly just in the condition in which it had left the drug store; but still, that could have been easily done by the doctor himself. "Suppose we open this package?" he said to Roland. "With all my heart," said the doctor, "go ahead;" and he shoved over to him a little penknife that was on the table. The reporter took the package, ran the knife around the edge, and opened it. There lay six capsules, filled, as the doctor had said. Roland picked up one of them, and looked at it critically. "I assure you," he said, "although I am quite aware you do not believe a word I say, that I have not seen those capsules before." He drew towards him a piece of paper, opened the capsule, and, let the white powder fall on the paper. He looked critically at the powder, and a shade of astonishment came over his face. He picked up the penknife, took a particle on the tip of it, and touched it with his tongue. "Don't fool with that thing!" said Stratton. "Oh, my dear fellow," he said, "morphia is not a poison in small quantities." The moment he had tasted it, however, he suddenly picked up the paper, put the five grains on his tongue, and swallowed them. Instantly the reporter sprang to his feet. He saw at once the reason for all the assumed coolness. The doctor was merely gaining time in order to commit suicide. "What have you done?" cried the reporter. "Done, my dear fellow? nothing very much. This is not morphia; it is sulphate of quinine." CHAPTER XIV. In the morning Jane Morton prepared to meet Mrs. Brenton, and make her confession. She called at the Brenton residence, but found it closed, as it had been ever since the tragedy of Christmas morning. It took her some time to discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Brenton, who, since the