“Is that all you have to say to me?” asked Diana, interrupting his string of words.
As she turned from him, he had the audacity to lay his hand upon the edge of her jacket.
“I have more to say,” said he, “if you will honor me with your attention. Something about—you can guess what.”
“About whom or what?” asked she, making no effort to hide her supreme contempt.
He smiled, glanced around to see that no one was within hearing, and then said in a low voice,—
“It is about the bottle of poison.”
She recoiled, as though some venomous reptile had started up in front of her.
“What do you mean?” cried she. “How dare you speak to me thus?”
All his servile manner had now returned to him, and he uttered a string of complaints in a whining tone of voice. She had played him a most unfair trick, and had stolen a certain little glass bottle from his office; and if anything had leaked out, his head would have paid the penalty of a crime in which he had no hand. He was quite ill, owing to the suspense and anxiety he had endured; sleep would not come to his bed, and the pangs of remorse tortured him continually.
“Enough,” cried Diana, stamping her foot angrily on the ground. “Enough, I say.”