‘We owe a candle to Saint Alexander Borgia!’ she said, when she recovered her breath.
‘Miss Martin,’ said Merton gravely, ‘this is a serious matter. You are not going, I trust, to poison the lemons for the elder Mr. Warren’s lemon squash? He is strictly Temperance, you know.’
‘Poison the lemons? With a hypodermic syringe?’ asked Miss Martin. ‘No; that is good business. I have made one of my villains do that, but that is not my idea. Perfectly harmless, my idea.’
‘But sensational, I fear?’ asked Merton.
‘Some very cultured critics might think so,’ the lady admitted. ‘But I am sure to succeed, and I hear the merry, merry wedding bells of the Bulcester tabernacle ringing a peal for the happy pair.’
‘Well, what is the plan?’
‘That is my secret.’
‘But I must know. I am responsible. Tell me, or I telegraph to Mr. Warren: “Lecturer never vaccinated; sorry for my mistake.”’
‘That would not be true,’ said Miss Martin.
‘A noble falsehood,’ said Merton.