Ralph Raymond's Heir

The poison which he sought in the small shop on the Bowery was the same whose effects he had seen described in the volume he had purchased in Nassau Street. He had an object in going to an obscure shop, as he would be less likely to be known, and such a purchase would be very apt to attract notice. But it was only by chance that he succeeded. In most shops of such humble pretensions such an article would not be found, but it so happened that some had been ordered by a chemist a year before, and the druggist, thinking it possible he might have a call for it, had ordered some to keep in his stock.

When Paul Morton reached home, he went up to his friend's chamber.

Ralph Raymond was lying stretched out upon the bed, looking quite sick; but not so sick as at times during his illness.

"How do you feel, Ralph?" said his false friend, bending over him.

"I am feeling more comfortable to-day, Paul," he said.

"Perhaps you will recover yet."

"No, I have no expectation of that; but I may be spared longer than I supposed possible."

"I certainly hope so," said Paul Morton; but there was a false ring in his voice, though the sick man, who had no doubt of his sincere friendship, was far enough from detecting this.

"I know you do," said Ralph.

"What medicines are you taking now?" inquired Paul Morton.

"There is a bottle of cordial; I take a wineglass of it once an hour."

Paul Morton took up the bottle and gazed at it thoughtfully.

"Is your nurse attentive?" he asked.

"Yes, I have no fault to find with her."

"Where is she now?"

"She just went down to prepare my dinner."

"When did you take your cordial last?"

"About an hour since."

"Then it is time to take it again."

"Yes, I suppose so; but I presume a few minutes later will make no difference."

"It is better to be regular about it. As the nurse is away I will give it to you."

"Thank you."

"I must go to the window, to see how much to pour out. How much do you usually take?"

"A wine-glass two-thirds full."

Paul Morton took the bottle and the glass 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?"