CHAPTER XXIV.
Dr.Panton's appointment at the Home Office had been for half-past ten, and, though there happened to be on this early January day an old-fashioned, black London fog, he had been punctual to the minute.
It was now eight minutes to eleven, and he began to feel rather cross and impatient.
There was nothing to do in the big, ugly, stately room into which he had been shown.

There was a bookcase, but it was locked, and he had not brought a paper with him--but that, perhaps, was a good thing, for the one electric globe gave a very bad light.
He wondered what manner of man Dr.Spiller might be--in any case a remarkable and distinguished person, one of the great authorities on poisons in Europe.
At last the door opened, and Dr.Panton felt surprised--even a little disappointed.

Not so had he imagined the famous Spiller.
"Forgive me for having kept you waiting, Dr .-- er--Panton." The tone of the quiet-looking, middle-aged man who stood before him was extremely courteous, if a trifle uncertain and nervous.
"If I hadn't been lodging close by I should have been late, too, Dr.
Spiller." "My name is not Spiller," said the other quickly.

"I have come to explain to you that the matter concerning which you were to see Dr.
Spiller this morning has been settled.

We should have saved you the trouble of coming here had we known where you were staying in London." Dr.Panton felt, not unreasonably, annoyed.