“You mean—”
Jack was startled, and he dropped the dried leaves on the library floor.
“A specimen of the water hemlock,” went on the colonel. “One of the deadliest poisons of the plant world. And as we don't want any one else to suffer the fate of Socrates, I'll put this away.”
He looked at the compound leaves, the dried flowers, small, but growing in the characteristic large umbels, and at the cluster of fleshy roots, though now pressed flat, and noted the hollow stems of the plant itself. The bunch of what had been verdure once had made a greenish, yellow stain in the book, which, as the colonel noted, was from the local public library, and bore the catalogue number 58 C. H.—161*.
“Well, maybe you see through it, but I don't,” confessed Jack. “Now, what's the next move?”
“Get these book cases back where they belong.”
This was done, and then the colonel, sitting down to rest, for the labor was not slight, went on:
“You are sure that the French chauffeur has been told that The Haven is to be closed, and that he will be no longer required here, nor in the city? That he must leave at once though his month is not up?”
“Oh, yes, I heard Miss Viola tell him that herself. She told me she didn't see why you wanted that done, but as you had charge of the case the house would be closed, even if they had to open it again, for they stay here until late in the fall, you know.
“Yes, I know. Then you are sure Forette thinks they are all going away and that he will have to go, too?”