to the window. As he stood there he was out of the observation of the patient. He poured out the required quantity of the cordial into the glass; but after doing so, he slyly added a small quantity of powder from a paper which he drew from his vest pocket. He put the paper back, and reappeared at the bedside holding the glass in his hand.
"I think I have poured out the right quantity," he said; but his voice was constrained, and there was a pallor about his face.
The sick man noticed nothing of this. He took the cup and drained it of its contents, as a matter of course.
"Thank you, Paul," he said.
Paul Morton could not find anything to say in reply to the thanks which fell upon his soul like a mockery.
He took the glass from the trembling hand of the sick man, and looked into it to see if in the depths there might be any tell-tale trace of the powder which he had dropped into it; but he could see nothing.
"Well, I must leave you for a time. Perhaps you can sleep," he said.
"Perhaps so; I will try," was the answer.
Paul Morton left the sick chamber, and shut himself up in his own room. He wanted to screen himself from the sight of all, for he knew that he had taken the fatal step, and that already, in deed, as well as in heart, he was a murderer!
CHAPTER III.
AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY
The next day Ralph Raymond's unfavorable symptoms had returned, and he was pronounced worse by the physician. Yet the change was not sufficiently marked to excite suspicion. It was supposed that his constitution had not vitality enough to rally against the steady approaches of the disease under which he was laboring.
Paul Morton read from the old medical book which he had picked up in Nassau Street, and which, as we know, had given him the first suggestion of the horrible crime which he had determined upon, the following words:
"The patient has been known to recover where but one dose of this poison has been administered, but should it have been given on two successive days, there is little or no chance that he will survive. Yet, so slow is its operation, that after the second time of administering, it is not impossible that he may survive several days. Cases have been known where the period has extended to a week, but of the final fatal result there can be no question."
"I must go through it again," muttered Paul Morton to himself. "It will not do to fail. While I am about it, I must make a sure thing of it."
He accordingly sought the bedside of the sick man on the next day, about the same time as before. He had watched till he saw the nurse go down to prepare the patient's dinner.
"How are you feeling, to-day?" he inquired, in apparent anxiety.
"Worse, my friend," said the sick man, feebly.
"But yesterday you said you were better, did you not?"
"Yes, I felt better then, but to-day I have a dull throbbing pain here," and he pointed to his breast.
"Did you not sleep well?"
"Yes, better than usual."
Paul Morton knew that this was the effect of the poison, for it had been referred to in the book.
"I wonder, then, you do not feel better," he said. "I supposed sleep always had a salutary effect."
"It has not had in my case. No, my friend, I feel convinced that I have not many days to live."
"I hope you are wrong. What can I do for you? Shall I not give you your cordial as I did yesterday?"
"Yes, if you like."
Again Paul Morton poured out the cordial, and again, as on the day previous, he filliped into the glass a minute portion of the powder.
The sick man drank it.
"I don't know what it is," he said, "but it does not taste as it used to."
Paul Morton turned pale, but he rallied at once.
"Your sickness, doubtless, affects your sense of taste," he said. "It is very often the case in sickness, even of a lighter character than yours."
"Very likely you are right."
"Can I do anything more for you?" asked Paul Morton, who was now anxious to get away from the presence of his victim. Strange thoughts came over him when he felt that he had taken a decisive step, which now could not be recalled. He had administered the poisonous powder for the second time, and, according to the medical authority which we have already quoted, there was no longer any help for the sick man, his victim. He might live two, three or four days, possibly a week, though this was not probable in the case of one whose constitution was enfeebled by a lingering malady, but his doom was sure.
But he was as truly a murderer as if he had approached him with a loaded pistol, and discharged it full at his temple. Twenty-four hours had made him such. But he did not realize this. He said to himself, "He was sure to die; this act of mine has only hastened the event a little. After all, it may be merciful, for it can hardly be desirable for him to linger in his present condition."
With this miserable casuistry he strove to palliate the treachery and crime which he had just committed, not against a foe who had done him harm, but against his early friend, for whom he had always professed the strongest affection. And all this for the sake of a little dross!
"There is something I want to tell you, Paul," said the sick man, turning his head on the pillow by an effort, "something which will, perhaps, surprise you, and after that I shall have a favor to ask of you. Will you grant it?"
"Yes," said Paul Morton, "I will grant it. Speak on."
His curiosity was not a little excited by what he had heard. He drew a chair to the bedside, and sat down.
"I am ready to hear what you have to say, Ralph," he said.
"You suppose, and the world supposes that I have never married," the sick man commenced.
Paul Morton started, and he awaited nervously what was to follow.
"The world is right, is it not?" he said hastily.
"No, the world is wrong. Sixteen years ago I married a portionless girl. For reasons which it is unnecessary now to mention, my marriage was not made public, but it was strictly legal. My young wife lived less than two years, but ere she died she gave me a son."
"Is he still living?" asked Paul Morton, in a hoarse voice.
"Yes, he still lives."
"Then," thought Paul, with a sense of bitter disappointment, "all my labor has been for naught. This boy will inherit Raymond's fortune, and his death will be of no benefit to me."
"Where is the boy now?" he asked.
"He is at a boarding-school on the Hudson. He was early educated abroad, but for two years he has been at Dr Tower's boarding-school, about forty miles from New York."
"Does he know anything of his parentage?"
"Yes, I went to see him before I came last to your house. Besides, I have thought it well to communicate all the facts in the case to Dr. Tower as it was possible, that I might die suddenly, and his testimony might be required to substantiate my son's claims to my estates."
"What is your son's name?" asked Paul Morton, rousing a little from the stupor into which the information had thrown him.
"Robert Raymond. It was the name of my wife's only brother, who had died young, and as I had no particular preference, I allowed her to name him."
"Is he in good health?"
"Yes; happily he has not inherited my constitution. He seems healthy and likely to live long. But I am sorry that he will be left so alone in the world, as he must be by my death. This brings me to the favor I was about to ask of you. In my will I have appointed you the guardian of my boy, who is now between fourteen and fifteen. I think it will not occasion you much trouble. My property, which I have put into solid securities, will amount to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Of course, therefore, there will be no occasion for stinting him. I desire him to have the best advantages.