"You want her ... dead?" whispered Olga, paling.
"Exactly. I want her dead. And so if all my efforts here come to nothing, so shall Hargreave's. His millions will become waste paper to him. That's revenge. The Persian peach method."
"Poison? You shall not! You shall not kill her!" vehemently.
"Tender-hearted?"
"No. If I must in the end go to prison, so be it; but I refuse to die in the chair."
"Very well, then. We shan't kill her, but we'll make her wish she was dead. I was only trying to see how far you would go. The basket of peaches is in the hallway. Every peach is poisoned. No man in the country knows more about subtle poisons than I do. Have I not written books on that subject?" ironically.
"And they will trace it back to you in a straight line," she warned. "I will not have it!"
"I can go elsewhere," he replied coldly.
"You would leave me?"
"The moment you cross my will," emphatically.