“Yes.”

“He was held to be skilful in the preparation of drugs, was he not—­well-versed in their properties?”

“Yes—­I believe so—­I do not know.  Why am I asked such questions?”

“You will know presently.  And now, woman, answer the question I am about to put to you, as you will be compelled to answer it to God at the last great day—­What was the nature of the drug which you or he mixed with the medicine prescribed for the late Mrs. Thorndyke?”

A spasmodic shriek, checked by a desperate effort, partially escaped her, and she stood fixedly gazing with starting eyes in my face.

The profoundest silence reigned in the court as I iterated the question.

“You must answer, woman,” said the judge sternly, “unless you know your answer will criminate yourself.”

The witness looked wildly round the court, as if in search of counsel or sympathy; but encountering none but frowning and eager faces—­Thorndyke she could not discern in the darkness—­she became giddy and panic-stricken, and seemed to lose all presence of mind.

“He—­he—­he,” she at last gasped—­“he mixed it.  I do not know—­But how,” she added, pushing back her hair, and pressing her hands against her hot temples, “can this be?  What can it mean?”

A movement amongst the bystanders just at this moment attracted the notice of the judge, and he immediately exclaimed, “The defendant must not leave the court!” An officer placed himself beside the wretched murderer as well as forger, and I resumed the cross-examination of the witness.

“Now, Mrs. Tucker, please to look at this letter.” (It was that which had been addressed to Mary Woodley by her son.) “That, I believe, is your son’s handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“The body of this will has been written by the same hand.  Now, woman, answer.  Was it your son—­this young man who, you perceive, if guilty, cannot escape from justice—­was it he who forged the names of the deceased Mrs. Thorndyke, and of John Cummins attached to it?”

“Not he—­not he!” shrieked the wretched woman.  “It was Thorndyke—­Thorndyke himself.”  And then with a sudden revulsion of feeling, as the consequences of what she had uttered flashed upon her, she exclaimed, “Oh, Silas, what have I said?—­what have I done?”

“Hanged me, that’s all, you accursed devil!” replied Thorndyke with gloomy ferocity.  “But I deserve it for trusting in such an idiot:  dolt and fool that I was for doing so.”

The woman sank down in strong convulsions, and was, by direction of the judge, carried out of the hall.

The anxious silence which pervaded the court during this scene, in which the reader will have observed I played a bold, tentative, and happily-successful game, was broken as the witness was borne off by a loud murmur of indignation, followed by congratulatory exclamations on the fortunate termination of the suit.  The defendant’s counsel threw up their briefs, and a verdict was at once returned for the plaintiff.