He took it, and dropped it in his pocket. We had each of us only one disengaged hand, as he still kept hold of my wrist.
"A feeble pulse," he said, shaking his head with tipsy gravity, "a very feeble pulse. Needs a stimulant."
"Irish whisky?"
"Irish whisky," he echoed; and disposed of his fourth glass, while I spilled mine as I had done before.
These rapid potations had the effect I desired; they weakened his self-control, they loosened his tongue.
"That was an interesting discussion you were having," I observed, "when I came in. What was it you said? That there are more ways than one of killing a man. How true that is! But it is only those who are experienced in such matters that can speak with authority. Do you suspect, doctor, that the woman is guilty?"
"I will take my oath she is guilty."
"But the fact of poison being administered was not absolutely established."
He snapped his fingers. "That for being established! There are poisons and poisons; there are way and ways. Did you ever take a sleeping draught?"
"Never."