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what could you possibly do to provoke him in such a way?” I inquired nervously. “Surely you did not say anything within my hearing that put him in such anger.”
    “I cheated,” said Mr. Holmes lightly.
    “What? Cheating at a whist game and putting your life at the mercy of a murderer…” I shook my head in disgust. “Mr. Holmes, I would have thought you knew better.”
    “There was nothing better I could have done, Martha,” he said easily, “Bertram is a cheat himself, but could not foresee someone playing him at his own game.”
    “So, you brought him here to provoke him to attempt murder again, with Lestrade here to see to the official trouble of putting him behind bars,” Dr. Watson said.
    “Exactly,” Mr. Holmes replied, smiling in his way, as if he had known all along. “By the way, Watson, I am glad you’re a very good shot with a revolver.”
    Dr. Watson smiled, and there was a peaceful silence. One more question remained unanswered, and I decided to venture with it. “Do you believe this is the end of him, Mr. Holmes?”
    He thought for a long moment, and then said, “It is not likely, but still possible that he could outwit the court. If Bertram escapes, he will certainly come, and next time with a stronger resolve.”
    Although this worried me, after a while my masters were again engrossed in other, and what they claimed to be more important cases. I continued to have Baker Street in my care, and so we went about our lives in the natural manner. I am glad to say that that for some time the residents of Baker Street were left in relative peace, and I am also most grateful that we were able to solve this most intimate case.

The Poison Cup
    A fortnight before the Christmas holiday, the sun shone brightly as I made a morning meal for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, who would be returning shortly from a late-night case. While so doing, I heard a knock on the front parlor door, and expecting it to be my employers, hastened to answer it. Finding no one there, I looked about me and saw a lone bottle on the porch with a note on it written thus:
    “Best wishes,
    and Happy Christmas!”
    No sooner had I brought the bottle inside than Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson appeared in the doorway.
    “Hello, Martha,” said Mr. Holmes. “Had an eventful morning, did we?” He nodded toward the bottle and smiled.
    “No, sir. I came to answer the door and it was there on the porch.”
    Dr. Watson read the note. “A trifle early for that, don’t you think?”
    Mr. Holmes spoke quickly. “Well, my friends, shall we open it and indulge in a man’s generosity? We could all use a good dram, you know.”
    Knowing his keen advances to drink from time to time, particularly in times of mental strain before a case was entirely solved, I uncorked the bottle. Taking it from me, Mr. Holmes poured himself a glass and handed Dr. Watson and myself two others. We raised our glasses, and I took the first swallows.
    “You cannot drink this,” I said as the men tipped their glasses.
    “What is the matter?”
    “Something is not right. A strange odour…”
    “I do not detect anything abnormal.” Mr. Holmes shrugged and put the glass to his lips.
    “No, Mr. Holmes!” I raised my hand to stop him.
    “She’s right, Holmes,” Dr. Watson said tentatively. “What if the drink had a much more lethal substance in it?”
    “Very well,” Mr. Holmes replied, putting the glass down.
    Some minutes later, as I was washing dishes, I felt suddenly nauseous. Before I could fall into a chair, I stumbled to the floor, overcome with fear. I called out as my throat constricted and my breath was cut short. My vision blurred, and I felt my blood congealing as the world went dark about me.
    Only seconds must have passed before I was awake again, retching and twitching like a wounded animal. I was continually given a terrible antidote to swallow, whereby more retching would ensue. When at last I thought I had not strength enough even to move, Dr.