or some other poison. Come immediately to his house. Burnham."

"You will pardon me," broke in Craig to Prescott, who was regarding us
without the slightest trace of emotion, "but Mr. Haswell, the old man
to whom I know you referred, is dead, and Dr. Burnham wishes to see
me immediately. It was only yesterday that I saw Mr. Haswell and he
seemed in pretty good health and spirits. Prescott, though there was
no love lost between you and the old man, I would esteem it a great
favor if you would accompany me to the house. You need not take any
responsibility unless you desire."

His words were courteous enough, but Craig spoke in a tone of quiet
authority which Prescott found it impossible to deny, Kennedy had
already started to telephone to his own laboratory, describing a
certain suitcase to one of his students and giving his directions. It
was only a moment later that we were panting up the sloping street
that led from the river front. In the excitement I scarcely noticed
where we were going until we hurried up the steps to the Haswell
house.

The aged caretaker met us at the door. She was in tears. Upstairs in
the front room where we had first met the old man we found Dr. Burnham
working frantically over him. It took only a minute to learn what had
happened. The faithful Jane had noticed an odor of gas in the hall,
had traced it to Mr. Haswell's room, had found him unconscious, and
instinctively, forgetting the new Dr. Scott, had rushed forth for Dr.
Burnham. Near the bed stood Grace Martin, pale but anxiously watching
the efforts of the doctor to resuscitate the blue-faced man who was
stretched cold and motionless on the bed.