needed--but shut the door and locked it.

I lit my little pocket-lamp and hung it on the back cushion. I even drew
the board and notebook from my pocket. But it seemed rather unnecessary
to take a fresh set of notes, and, to tell the truth, I rather shirked
the labour, tired as I was after my late exertions; besides, I wanted
to think over the events of the evening, while they were fresh in my
memory. Accordingly I put away the notebook, filled and lighted my pipe,
and settled myself to review the incidents attending my second visit to
this rather uncanny house.

Considered in leisurely retrospect, that visit offered quite a number of
problems that called for elucidation. There was the patient's condition,
for instance. Any doubt as to the cause of his symptoms was set at rest
by the effect of the antidotes. Mr. Graves was certainly under the
influence of morphine, and the only doubtful question was how he had
become so. That he had taken the poison himself was incredible. No
morphinomaniac would take such a knock-down dose. It was practically
certain that the poison had been administered by someone else, and, on
Mr. Weiss's own showing, there was no one but himself and the
housekeeper who could have administered it. And to this conclusion all
the other very queer circumstances pointed.

What were these circumstances? They were, as I have said, numerous,
though many of them seemed trivial. To begin with, Mr. Weiss's habit of
appearing some time after my arrival and disappearing some time before
my departure was decidedly odd. But still more odd was his sudden
departure this evening on what looked like a mere pretext. That
departure coincided in time with the sick man's recovery of the power of
speech. Could it be that Mr. Weiss was afraid that the half-conscious