Shattuck stopped. What was the matter? Did he realize that he was getting hopelessly tangled?
"It is a pretty story, this, about your duel, as you call it," interrupted Doyle. "But it was not atropin that killed him. It was physostigmine. Atropin is the antidote. Didn't you know that, when you planned this ordeal you speak about? Besides, the traces of atropin were not in the glass that was found nearest the body. They were in the other."
For a moment Shattuck stared helplessly. Was he, after all, just a murderer? Had he framed this duel by poison, preparing safety for himself, death for Wilford?
"Come now, Shattuck," exclaimed Doyle, adopting that confidential manner that worked so well often with underworld characters, but seemed so out of place here, "did you—honestly—fight such a duel? Didn't you really force Mr. Wilford to eat that bean? And weren't you protecting yourself? Aren't there motives enough that we know for you to have wanted him out of the way?"
Before Shattuck could reply, there was a sudden exclamation from some one beside me. A figure in a filmy dress darted between Doyle and Shattuck.
"No—no—wait!"
We were all on our feet in an instant at this sudden interruption at such a tense moment.
It was Honora, no longer the stately creature of dignity we had seen, no longer the passive person submitting to the tests of Kennedy's psychology, suppressing the emotions that lay in her heart. Her whole being seemed to be transformed. It was as though a new spirit had been instilled suddenly into her. She faced us, and as I looked into her burning eyes I saw that what had been the mere statue of a woman, as we had first known her, had become a throbbing soul of life and passion.
Shattuck saw the change. In spite of the terrible situation, his face kindled. It was worth it, if only for the brief moments, to feel that he had aroused in her that which he saw.
"Wait," she repeated, "let me tell."