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Rh the very one against which Walter Maynard had leant not above an hour or so before. The blood was yet red on the grass; and Sir George Kingston felt a sickness seize upon him as he caught sight of it. Again his whole frame was wrung with convulsive pain; this time the spasm was instantly followed by another. He strove to call for aid; and he heard his voice die away on the silent night. He was alone—helpless; a few acres of green grass made a solitude, vast as a desert, around him. Every moment he grew more incapable of moving; yet he knew he might cry aloud for assistance in vain. He gazed around—strange shapes seemed to flit by, then grow into gigantic shadows; a sound of rushing waters was in ears, and he gasped with a burning thirst. Suddenly a terrible fear flashed across him, and as it flashed, he felt that it was the truth. The cup of coffee that he had drank at Lady Marchmont's, had she drugged that too? Lord Marchmont's white, rigid face seemed to be painted distinctly on the air; and then