"I have. But it depends on you. Surely with all your knowledge, you know a drug that can temporarily weaken a person's will? There must be something that girl could take which would make her willing to follow our suggestions? She's in such a nervous condition, a sudden illness would seem quite natural. Once she was in the right state, I could persuade her to give us her jewels and some cheque. Then we wouldn't let the grass grow under our feet. We'd be off—and in no danger."
"There's no drug of that sort," said Dauntrey.
"I don't believe you. Oh, say there is! I don't know what I may be driven to do, with my own hands, if you refuse to help me."
"I tell you there's no such thing—that isn't dangerous to life."
She caught at this admission. "What is the thing in your mind?" she whispered tensely.
"A plant that grows in this garden," he admitted sullenly. "You must have smelt the perfume when we drove in."
"Datura! I remember. The Kaffirs make a decoction of it in South Africa. They think it's a love potion."
"Yes, that's what I mean. There are two ways of using it. One way it's a deadly poison. The other makes those who take the stuff stupid. But even so it's dangerous. I've seen one or two victims of that experiment who didn't come back to their senses, but remained dull and melancholy, caring for nothing and nobody."
"That's a risk we must run," said Eve, with the briskness of hope and a decision arrived at. "It's simply providential!"
"Good Lord, what a word to use!"