"Should I scream out for help? He might have fired the gun. Besides—"
She stopped again and dropped her gaze. "There was my reputation," she added.
Doyle smiled cynically. She saw it. There was nothing, no slightest facial change that she missed.
"What do I care—for anything—now?" she defied, directing the remark full at Doyle, who winced.
Shattuck's face was a study as she poured forth her story. There was admiration in every line of it—and surprise. I was convinced that she had swept him off his feet as she had all of us. What did it mean?
"What was I to do?" she repeated, gazing about wildly. "It came to me in a flash, an inspiration," she raced on, "the atropin—belladonna. I remembered it from the old days when I was little more than a school-girl, in the store."
Involuntarily she reached for her chatelaine, but did not open it, as she illustrated.
"I had my belladonna bottle with me."
Rapt, now, we watched and listened.
"There were only a few drops left in the bottle, I knew. I never carried much—nor used it often."