‘The easy dash of ten minutes past seven, the rakish recklessness of a
quarter past, the drooping weariness of twenty-five minutes past, must
have been observed by everybody.’
‘Whatever amount of truth there may be, there is a good deal of
imagination in your fancy,’ she said.
He still contemplated the clock.
‘Then, again, the general finish of the face has a great effect upon the
eye. This old-fashioned brass-faced one we have here, with its arched
top, half-moon slit for the day of the month, and ship rocking at the
upper part, impresses me with the notion of its being an old cynic,
elevating his brows, whose thoughts can be seen wavering between good
and evil.’
A thought now enlightened her: the clock was behind her, and he wanted
to get her back turned. She dreaded turning, yet, not to excite his
suspicion, she was on her guard; she quickly looked behind her at the
clock as he spoke, recovering her old position again instantly. The time
had not been long enough for any action whatever on his part.
‘Ah,’ he casually remarked, and at the same minute began to pour her
out a glass of wine. ‘Speaking of the clock has reminded me that it must
nearly want winding up. Remember that it is wound to-night. Suppose you
do it at once, my dear.’
There was no possible way of evading the act. She resolutely turned to
perform the operation: anything was better than that he should suspect
her. It was an old-fashioned eight-day clock, of workmanship suited to
the rest of the antique furniture that Manston had collected there, and
ground heavily during winding.
Anne had given up all idea of being able to watch him during the
interval, and the noise of the wheels prevented her learning anything by
her ears. But, as she wound, she caught sight of his shadow on the wall
at her right hand.
What was he doing? He was in the very act of pouring something into her
glass of wine.
He had completed the manoeuvre before she had done winding. She
methodically closed the clock-case and turned round again. When she
faced him he was sitting in his chair as before she had risen.
In a familiar scene which has hitherto been pleasant it is difficult to
realize that an added condition, which does not alter its aspect, can
have made it terrible. The woman thought that his action must have been
prompted by no other intent than that of poisoning her, and yet she
could not instantly put on a fear of her position.
And before she had grasped these consequences, another supposition
served to make her regard the first as unlikely, if not absurd. It was
the act of a madman to take her life in a manner so easy of discovery,
unless there were far more reason for the crime than any that Manston
could possibly have.
Was it not merely his intention, in tampering with her wine, to make
her sleep soundly that night? This was in harmony with her original
suspicion, that he intended secretly to abscond. At any rate, he was
going to set about some stealthy proceeding, as to which she was to be
kept in utter darkness. The difficulty now was to avoid drinking the
wine.
By means of one pretext and another she put off taking her glass for
nearly five minutes, but he eyed her too frequently to allow her to
throw the potion under the grate. It became necessary to take one
sip. This she did, and found an opportunity of absorbing it in her
handkerchief.
Plainly he had no idea of her countermoves. The scheme seemed to him in
proper train, and he turned to poke out the fire. She instantly seized
the glass, and poured its contents down her bosom. When he faced round
again she was holding the glass to her lips, empty.
In due course he locked the doors and saw that the shutters were
fastened. She attended to a few closing details of housewifery, and a
few minutes later they retired for the night.