Oh! the camphor--the----" There was a bustle; this poor young wife had evidently fainted again.
Miss Butterworth cast very miserable glances at the door.
Meanwhile in that small and retired smoking-room a terrible scene was in progress.

The two gentlemen had lit their cigars and were sitting in certain forced attitudes that evinced their non-enjoyment of the weed each had taken out of complaisance to the other, when an old man, strangely serious, strangely at home, yet as strangely a guest of the house like themselves, came in, and shut the door behind him.
"Gentlemen," he at once announced, "I am Detective Gryce of the New York police, and I am here--but I see that one of you at least knows why I am here." One?
Both of them! This was evident in a moment.

No denial, no subterfuge was possible.

At the first word uttered in the strange, authoritative tone which old detectives acquire after years of such experiences, the young man sank down in sudden collapse, while his companion, without yielding so entirely to his emotions, showed that he was not insensible to the blow which, in one moment, had brought destruction to all their hopes.
When Mr.Gryce saw himself so completely understood, he no longer hesitated over his duty.

Directing his full attention to Mr.Adams, he said, this time with some feeling, for the misery of this young man had impressed him: "You are wanted in New York by Coroner D----, whose business it is to hold an inquest over the remains of Mr.Felix Adams, of whose astonishing death you are undoubtedly informed.