Yorke-Bannerman had a rich uncle from whom he had expectations--a certain Admiral Scott Prideaux.

This uncle had lately made a will in Yorke-Bannerman's favour; but he was a cantankerous old chap--naval, you know autocratic--crusty--given to changing his mind with each change of the wind, and easily offended by his relations--the sort of cheerful old party who makes a new will once every month, disinheriting the nephew he last dined with.

Well, one day the Admiral was taken ill, at his own house, and Yorke-Bannerman attended him.

OUR contention was--I speak now as my old friend's counsel--that Scott Prideaux, getting as tired of life as we were all tired of him, and weary of this recurrent worry of will-making, determined at last to clear out for good from a world where he was so little appreciated, and, therefore, tried to poison himself." "With aconitine ?" I suggested, eagerly.
"Unfortunately, yes; he made use of aconitine for that otherwise laudable purpose.

Now, as ill luck would have it"-- Mayfield's wrinkles deepened--"Yorke-Bannerman and Sebastian, then two rising doctors engaged in physiological researches together, had just been occupied in experimenting upon this very drug--testing the use of aconitine.
Indeed, you will no doubt remember"-- he crossed his fat hands again comfortably--"it was these precise researches on a then little-known poison that first brought Sebastian prominently before the public.