"The symptoms are those of tetanus," said the nearest medical practitioner, who had been called in. He seemed fairly puzzled. "Tetanus or—" He did not finish the sentence, because the single word that was on his lips formed a serious charge against a person or persons unknown. "But there is nothing to explain lock-jaw; while the abatement of the symptoms points to—" Again he paused.
The muscles of the mouth, which had been the last attacked, gradually resumed their normal condition. The patient appeared altogether more easy, the writhings subsided; presently, as if utterly exhausted, she sank off to sleep.
Harold Purling had come up post-haste from Harbridge; and when the mother opened her eyes they rested upon her son.
A hurried consultation passed in whispers between the two doctors. Phillipa was present; she and the maid had not left Mrs. Purling all night.
"Mother," said Harold, "you are out of all danger. Tell me—do you recollect taking anything likely to make you ill?"
"Only the pills." She pointed to the family medicine—a box of which stood always by her bedside. She had some curious notion that it was her duty to show belief in the Primeval Pills, and she made a practice of swallowing two morning and night.
Harold opened the box; examined the pills; finally put one into his mouth and bit it through. Bitter as gall.
"They have been tampered with," he said. "These contain strychnia. You have had a narrow escape of being poisoned, dearest mother—poisoned by your own Pills!"
He half smiled at the conceit.
"There has been foul play, I swear. It shall be sifted to the bottom, and the guilty called to serious account."