That, and the relaxed limbs, enlightened him.
"Prussic acid," said he.
As Inspector Val replaced the San Reve's hand by her side, a tiny vial--that with a prayer-book--was dislodged from a fold of her dress.
The vial showed a few drops of a yellow-green fluid in the bottom.
Inspector Val picked it up, and the bitter breath of the almond was more pronounced than ever.
"Exactly!" murmured Inspector Val; "prussic acid! She died as though by lightning;--which is a proper way to die if one's mind is made up.

Now why couldn't she have sent Storri by the same route?
A drop of this"-- here he surveyed the tiny vial with interest, almost with approval--"a drop of this in the corner of his eye, or on his lip, would have beaten the pistol.

Ah, yes, the pistol!" mused Inspector Val, taking the baby weapon in his hand; "I suppose the storm drowned the report.

Well, they're gone! Storri was asleep, and never knew what hit him; which, considering his record,--and I'm something of a judge,--was an easier fate than he had earned." Inspector Val made a close examination of the room, rather from habit than any thought more deep, and straightway discovered the sleepy whisky.

He put it to his nose as he had the tiny vial.
"Laudanum!" he muttered; "she had mapped it out in every detail.