“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would you mind going down and fetching

that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the

landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday.”

 

I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured

breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end.

 

Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual

term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.

 

“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said Holmes, and drawing his

penknife he suited the action to the word. “One half we return into the box for

future purposes. The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which is a

teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and

that it readily dissolves.”

 

“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, in the injured tone of one who

suspects that he is being laughed at, “I cannot see, however, what it has to do

with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”

 

“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has everything to

do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and on

presenting it to the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough.”

 

As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and placed it