“Because a similar attempt was practised on another.”
“At which it seems that you were present?”
“I was not.” Kennedy was too fiercely angry to answer in more words than were absolutely required.
“I am sorry to say, Mr Kennedy, you have not cleared yourself from the great disgrace of giving an invitation, though you supposed that it would be made the opportunity for perpetrating an infamous piece of mischief. Can you throw no more light on the subject?”
“None.”
“Will you bring the decanter out of which Lord De Vayne drank?” said one of the seniors after a pause, and with an intense belief in the acuteness of the suggestion.
“I don’t see what good it will do, but I will order my gyp to carry it here if you wish.”
“Do so, sir. And let me add,” said the Master, “that a little more respectfulness of manner would be becoming in your present position.”
Kennedy’s lip curled, and without answer he left the room to fetch the wine, grimly chuckling at the effect which the mixture would produce on Mr Norton’s fastidious taste. When he reached his rooms, he stumbled against the table in his hurry, and upset a little glass dish which held his pencils, one of which rolled away under the fender. In lifting the fender to pick it up, a piece of paper caught his eye, which the bedmaker in cleaning the room had swept out of sight in the morning. He looked at it, and saw in legible characters, “Laudanum, Poison.” It was the label which had been loosely tied on Bruce’s phial, and which had slipped off as he hurried it into his pocket.
He read it, and as the horrid truth flashed across his mind, stood for a moment stupefied and dumb. His plan was instantly formed. Instead of returning to the conclave of Seniors he ran straight off to the chemist’s, which was close by Saint Werner’s.