The man was leaning half across the table, his arms stretched out in an unnatural fashion,—the wine which he had overturned streaming on to the floor. His face was flushed and blotchy. His eyes were closed. He was groaning quite audibly, and gasping.
"Empoisonné!" he muttered. "Empoisonné!"
"Poisoned?" I repeated. "What does the fellow mean?"
I stopped short. A sudden realization of what he did mean assailed me! He was desperately ill, there was no doubt about that. The word which he had uttered seemed likely to be his last for some time to come. They formed a sort of stretcher and carried him from the room. Felicia was sitting back in her chair, white to the lips. I was feeling a little queer myself. I called Louis, who had been superintending the man's removal.
"Louis," I whispered in his ear, "there were two dinners which you prepared yourself to-night!"
Louis smiled very quietly.
"You need have no anxiety, monsieur," he assured me,—"no anxiety at all!"