As a matter of fact he had not drunk it, for before raising the glass he had dexterously poured its contents upon the carpet. Her trick was too obvious. Parkson, blinded, enamoured by love, might have fallen into the trap, but he, John, knew his antagonist in this singular duel which was taking place in the semi-darkness. He came well armed with a knowledge of her character.
Minutes passed, during which Mrs. Beecher Monmouth held him enchained, as she believed, by her finished coquetry.
John, who had been probing about in his mind, hoping that she might divulge something useful, rose at last and stretched his legs.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth was again at the window. He noticed that several times during the last quarter of an hour she had drifted there, as if with some intent and watchful purpose.
"Why do you keep going to the window?" he asked, suddenly and abruptly.
"I like to look out at the night."
"There's nothing much to see," returned John. "It's clouded over again, and the air is close enough to stifle one!"
"Yes," answered she.
In the gloom John saw her put up her hands to her throat. "It is enough to stifle one," she breathed, slowly and intensely.
Then John knew that big things were afoot, that she was waiting, strung up tensely to more than concert pitch. He put up his hand, pushed up the catch of the window, and opened it quietly upon the sultry night. A faint wind stirred, rustling the leaves. There was silence for a minute, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth seemed to remember the role she was playing, slid her fingers into his and looked up into his face.