She closed her eyes and listened to the patter of his footsteps, running
up the oilcloth-covered stairs. He came in evidently breathless.
"Don't say I didn't make haste," he said, pantingly, as he poured some
water from the glass jug he was carrying into his own tumbler, which was
empty. "You won't mind your husband's glass, of course." He handed it
to her.
"No," said Joan, who felt sternly apathetic--with but one dominant
feeling--to circumvent this fiendish being, and possess the letters and
certificate with which he threatened her. And she drank the water off
at a draught, even as he had drunk the brandy. The glass must be empty
to hold the drugged spirit.
"Great Scott!" he laughed, contemptuously, as he took the empty tumbler
and looked curiously at it. "To see any one gulp down water like that
gives me the shivers! Pah, I must positively warm my nerves after
seeing you do it!"
She watched him, fascinated, as he poured out another half-tumbler of
the now drugged brandy, and dashed a few teaspoonfuls of water into it.
"That is how I take my liquor--like a man!" he said, after a long drink,
setting the nearly emptied glass down on the table. "Ah! I feel better
of my temper already. You must not pay attention to what I said just
now, old girl! I didn't mean it, really I didn't! Some one said
something to me about a Lord Vansittart or somebody having boasted he
would have you, or die. You doubtless know of the fellow! But you must
be accustomed to that sort of thing by this time, eh? Your uncle has a
big fortune to leave." He smiled sardonically.
She thrilled--a curious, cold thrill, at the insult. But she controlled
herself. "Victor--I have always remembered that I was your wife," she
solemnly said. "My uncle has teased me to marry. I have
never--encouraged--any one."
"Then you have a sneaking liking for your 'darling,' as you used to call
me, eh!" he said, a little thickly. The brandy was already making him
feel less critical and sceptical in his mental attitude towards Joan and
mankind in general. "Come and sit on the sofa under the window. There
is hardly a breath of air in this blessed little room. How I hate tiny
rooms! I hope this is the last I shall ever be in!"
He held out his hand. What was she to do? After a swift query to
herself, she determined to dare all--to woo him to that drugged sleep
during which she would abstract his keys, open that desk, and steal
those incriminating documents.
She allowed him to lead her to the sofa and, seating himself in the
corner, encircle her with his arm. The evening air came in through the
window which opened upon the little balcony where, coming along the
street, she had seen him, a dark figure in the twilight, awaiting her.
"It is pleasant here, is it not?" he said, with a sigh, telling himself
that he must have taken a bigger "dose" of that brandy than was prudent
at this juncture, for it seemed to have affected his speech. His tongue
was not so ready in its compliance as usual, and his eyes felt stiff,
his eyelids heavy. "Perhaps it was running upstairs so fast, not
knowing what she might not be up to," he thought, remembering a caution
given him by a doctor that his heart was weak--a timely warning he had
derided at the time, but which often crossed his mind when he "felt
queer."
"Yes, it is very nice," said Joan, nerving herself to act--to conceal
her violent loathing of him. "But as you like plenty of air about you,
why not do as I suggest? Let us start in a steamer--a sailing vessel if
you please--so that all trace of us is lost for a time, and uncle and
aunt will not be able to imagine what has become of me."
She talked away, pitching her voice in a slumberous, monotonous tone, as
she had learnt to do from a nurse, when Lady Thorne had a serious and
tedious illness after her first year with them as their adopted
daughter. The terror of the crisis, the tremendous issues depending upon
whether the brandy she had drugged would send Victor to sleep and allow
of her stealing her letters from that desk, lent her eloquence. She
painted her uncle and aunt's state of mind when they would find her
flown, in vivid colours--she held out the prospect of unlimited wealth
they two would eventually enjoy--all to gain time until the morphia
should hold him powerless. It was a big dose he had taken, she hopefully
thought, even were he one of those unhappy mortals addicted to the use
or abuse of narcotics. And as she talked on and on, she stealthily
watched his face, his eyes.
"That is all--very fine--and large, as they say," he vulgarly
returned--and wondered in a vague, stupefied way why his voice sounded
so far off--an echo of itself. "But--but--well,
I--like--Paris--Paris--d'ye understand--Paris--you fool--what 'yer
starin'--at--? Can't ye get--me--some--no, no--water--water--"
Something heavy was gathering in his chest. He felt breathless. He
tried to push her away, but he could not move.
She jumped up, startled by his pallor, his sunken look--the gathering
purple round his eyes. His nose stood out sharply from his face. She
poured the drugged brandy into her untouched glass of the spirit, and
filling the empty glass with water, brought it to him. He seemed to
squint curiously at it, but allowed her to hold it to his lips. He
swallowed a little, but it trickled from his mouth. What was this
horrid feeling--this weight--powerlessness?--he asked
himself--stupidly--then he thought suddenly of Vera, and the dread of
Joan's being found with him by her brought a temporary rally from the
strange, helpless drowsiness which had him in its grip.
"Go--go! Now! You--mustn't be found here--d'ye hear me? Go!" he
spluttered.
"Let me stay till you are better," pleaded Joan. But he gave such a
choking oath that, remembering she could feign leaving him and return,
she pretended to obey.
"You will write and tell me when to come again, won't you?" she said;
then, as he staggered into a sitting position and stammered out another
terrifying oath, she fled, with a backward glance of terror and misery
over her shoulder.
Down the narrow stairs, along the hall she went. Unchaining the door,
she opened it for an instant or two, then closed it with a slight bang,
as one might do from the outside. Then she leant up against the door
silently and listened.
There was not a sound in the house into which she was shut, alone, with
the man she had drugged. She could hear her quickened pulses as they
ebbed back into a more normal beat. From below came a steady ticking--a
kitchen clock, she thought, sounding loud in the empty,
sparsely-carpeted dwelling. Then it struck; listening, fascinated, she
counted eleven strokes.