The Poisoned Goblet by Arthur Gask

It was an hour or more after Larose had bent down over the dead man in the ditch before he was again in the full possession of his senses. The injuries he had received and the varying emotions of the night had been too much for him, and he had just collapsed and fallen where he was.

He had lain in a sort of stupor among the dead leaves, close beside the body, and when at length he opened his eyes, it was to find them within a few inches of a tired, white face, fouled over in blood and mud. He had flung one of his arms, too, as if protectingly, over the head of the dead man and his fingers were sticky, in an unpleasant way.