He poured a little of the tea into a clean cup, smelt, tasted, and spat it out.
“Quite right,” he said firmly. “Don’t let that tea-pot be touched again.”
Garstang winced, for the words were to him charged with death, a trial for murder, and the silent evidence of the crime.
“Here, you help me,” said Leigh, quickly; and he rinsed out the cup with water from the urn, poured a couple of teaspoonfuls from a bottle into the cup, and kneeling by the couch while the housekeeper held the insensible girl’s head, tried to insert the spoon between the closely set teeth.
The effort was vain, and he was forced to trickle the antidote he tried to administer through the teeth, but there was no effort made to swallow; the insensibility was too deep.
“Better?” said Garstang, after watching the doctor’s efforts to revive his patient for quite half an hour.
“Better?” he said, fiercely. “Can you not see, man, that she is steadily passing away?”
“No, no, she seems calmer, and more like one asleep. Oh, persevere, doctor!”
“I want help here—the counsel and advice of the best man you can get. Send instantly for Sir Edward Lacey, Harley Street.”
“No,” said Garstang, frowning darkly. “You seem an able practitioner. It is a matter of time for the effects of the potent drug to die out, is it not?”