The death of Edmund Clarke so quickly decreed, she began to plan that of the old doctor.
This was not so easy. He did not have a convenient glass of sedative ready by his bedside. But she had noticed at supper that he was fond of a glass of wine.
"I must poison a draught for him before he leaves Cliffdene," she thought, regretting that she could not accomplish it to-night.
But Edmund Clarke's speedy death would delay the search for Liane a while, even if it did not postpone it forever.
For the old physician was not likely to prosecute it after the death of his patron. He could have no interest in doing so, though she would make sure he did not by putting him out of the way if she could.
Her mind a chaos of evil thoughts, Roma rested in her chair, waiting till she thought every one must be asleep before she stole from the room to poison the draught for the man she had regarded until this hour as her own father, and to whose wealth she owed her luxurious life of eighteen years.
Neither pity nor gratitude warmed her cold heart. She had never loved him in her life, and she hated him now.
In her rage and despair she had forgotten Jesse Devereaux's letter to her father until, in a restless movement, she heard the rustle of paper in her corsage.
An evil gleam lightened in her eyes, and she drew the letter forth, muttering:
"Ah, this will beguile my weary waiting!"