“Now, Francis, remember that you’re not to stir and soon you’ll understand how clever Mrs. Kenley trapped the wicked doctor.” She began to laugh again—cruel and low—and then she continued in a singsong sort of drone, “You can see the beaker, Francis?”
“Yes, of course I can.”
“Francis, do you know what’s in it? Can you guess?”
“No, of course I can’t. But where is Mrs. Kenley, and what’s it all about?” I felt a growing anger. Every time she spoke my name she fondled it. I can’t explain it, but it seemed almost that she knew how I longed to hear Janet call me so, and that she was jeering at me for it. It angered me and hurt.
“Vitriol, Francis! Beautiful, burning, biting vitriol. I wonder if you know exactly how it blinds and corrodes?”
“In God’s name,” I cried, thoroughly disturbed at last, “what is all this foolery about?”
“Hush! Not so loud. And remember that you’re not to move any nearer. See what a nice lot of it there is. If I threw it: all over any one wouldn’t it blind them quickly! I emptied it out of the bottle into the glass so that I could throw it quickly all at once. Wasn’t that thoughtful of me, Francis? And, Francis, if you call out or move a single step, I will, Francis. Over your Janet, Francis. Just look at her, isn’t she a picture? You and your woman detective, you blundering fool!”
She stooped and jerked the dust-sheet from the iron bed.
“Don’t stir,” she laughed, “or I’ll spill it right away over her bloody face.”
Her laughter held her again as she stood holding the beaker over Janet. It was so big that she could barely span it, and her hand shook as she herself was shaken by her demoniac mirth. I stood helplessly looking at her from my dark corner, in an agony of apprehension.