"Be comforted," she said. "I am not going to eat these. I brought them for study. Most of them are harmless enough, I believe, but they are of a kind that even experts are not always sure of. They are called Boleti—almost the first we have found. I have laid them out here for display, just as the lecturer did last week at Lake Placid."
Miss Deane selected one of the brightly colored specimens.
"This," she began, with mock gravity and a professional air, "is a Boletus—known as Boletus speciosus—that is, I think it is." She opened the book and ran hastily over the leaves. "Yes, speciosus—either that or the bicolor—I can't be certain just which."
"There, Constance," interrupted Mrs. Deane, "you confess, yourself, you can't tell the difference. Now, how are we going to know when we are being poisoned? We ate some last night. Perhaps they were deadly poison—how can we know?"
"Be comforted, Mamma; we are still here."
"But perhaps the poison hasn't begun to work yet."
"It should have done so, according to the best authorities, some hours ago. I have been keeping watch of the time."
Mrs. Deane groaned.
"The best authorities? Oh, dear—oh, dear! Are there really any authorities in this awful business? And she has been watching the time for the poison to work—think of it!"
A little group of guests collected to hear the impromptu discussion. Frank, half reclining on the veranda steps, ran his eye over the assembly. For the most part they seemed genuine seekers after recreation and rest in this deep forest isolation. There were brain-workers among them—painters and writer folk. Some of the faces Frank thought he recognized. In the foreground was a rather large woman of the New England village type. She stood firmly on her feet, and had a wide, square face, about which the scanty gray locks were tightly curled. She moved closer now, and leaning forward, spoke with judicial deliberation.