Stone mechanically looked over the contents of the little basket. There was only a scant handful of papers. But carefully spreading a towel on the floor he turned the basket upside down. Tremblingly he fingered the papers. The first was the wrapper that had contained a cake of French soap. At a glance, Stone saw the corresponding soap in its silver dish. Estelle had doubtless placed it there, casting away its paper.
But among the scraps was another paper—two more. They were,—they surely were in creases like the folds of a powder paper!
With lightest touch, Stone unfolded them. There was one, about four inches square, that had been folded as if to contain a powder. This was white, and of a texture like writing paper. The other was of a paraffin paper, exactly the same size and shape, and in similar creases. Also there was a bunchy ball of tin-foil, that, when smoothed out, proved to be of identical shape and size with the other two.
There was no room for doubt. These were unquestionably the wrappers of the aconitine! Stone detected on the inside of the paraffin paper traces of the powder itself, and knew that a test would prove his discovery a true find.
Now, then, where did he stand? To his own mind, what he had found proved that Miss Carrington had herself gone to her bath-room, opened the powder, thrown the papers carelessly in the basket, and then, mixing the stuff with water, had taken it then and there and rinsed the glass and set it back on the shelf. It was all natural and plausible.
But, he well knew, others would say that, remembering her detestation of medicaments, Miss Lucy Carrington never did such a thing. Also, they would say, some one else, some one of whom Miss Lucy felt no fear, had mixed the draught, and had administered it, by means of some yet undiscovered but plausible misrepresentation.
And only too well he knew whose name would be associated with the deed!
Heavy of heart, he returned to the boudoir and sat in the easy chair, before the mirror.
New thoughts came surging. It was sure, now, that Miss Carrington took the aconitine in a glass of water, in her own apartments,—one of them,—and took it, if not knowingly or willingly, at least without any great objection or disturbance. Clinging to his theory that she was alone, Stone visualized her taking the draught by herself. Assume for the moment, an intended headache cure,—but no! If she took the aconitine alone and voluntarily, she knew it was poison, for she said “To-morrow I shall be freed forever from this homely face.”
Did it all come back, then, to suicide? No, not with that glad face, that happy smile, that joyful look of anticipation. A suffering invalid, longing for death, might thus welcome a happy release, but not life-loving Lucy Carrington.