She dropped at my feet weeping.
"Have pity on me, monsieur!" She looked up at me through her tears, and the pose was distinctly effective. "It was Madame Deschamps who asked me to do it. I used to be with her before I came to mademoiselle. She gave me the bottle, but I didn't know it was poison—I swear I didn't!"
"What did you take it to be, then? Jam? Two grains of atropine will cause death."
For answer she clung to my knees. I released myself, and moved away a few steps. She jumped up, and made a dash for the door, but I happened to have locked it.
"Where is Madame Deschamps?" I asked.
"She returns to Paris to-morrow. Monsieur will let me go. I was only a tool."
"I will consider that matter, Yvette," I said. "In my opinion you are a thoroughly wicked girl, and I wouldn't trust you any further than I could see you. For the present, you will have an opportunity to meditate over your misdoings." I left the room, and locked the door on the outside.
Impossible to disguise the fact that I was enormously pleased with myself—with my sharpness, my smartness, my penetration, my success.