in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes’ earnest

demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the

animal intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such appeared,

however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a

laboured way, but apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

 

Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without result, an

expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon his features.

He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every other

symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion, that I felt sincerely

sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means

displeased at this check which he had met.

 

“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last springing from his chair and

pacing wildly up and down the room; “it is impossible that it should be a mere

coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the case of Drebber are

actually found after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can

it mean? Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been false. It is

impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have

it!” With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill

in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The

unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before

it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if

it had been struck by lightning.