Something that glistened, something that could only have got there by falling from this window.

Could he reach it?
No; he would have to climb up from below to do that.

Well, that was easy enough.

With the thought, he rushed from the room.

In another minute he was beneath that window; had climbed, pulled, pushed his way up; had found the little pocket of netted vines observable from above; had thrust in his fingers and worked a small object out; had looked at it, uttered an exclamation curious in its mixture of suppressed emotions, and let himself down again into the midst of the two or three men who had scented the adventure and hastened to be witnesses of its outcome.
"A phial!" he exclaimed, "An empty phial, but--" Holding the little bottle up between his thumb and forefinger, he turned it slowly about until the label faced them.
On it was written one word, but it was a word which invariably carries alarm with it.
That word was: _Poison_.
Sweetwater did not return to New York that night.
XIX "IT 'S NOT WHAT YOU WILL FIND" I am not mad;--I would to heaven I were! For then, 't is like I should forget myself: O, if I could, what grief should I forget!-- Preach some philosophy to make me mad, For being not mad, but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be delivered of these woes.
_King John_.
"I regret to disturb you, Arthur; but my business is of great importance, and should be made known to you at once.