“That something is being given to her!” echoed Madame St. Vincent, her face flushing with surprise. “Given to her in what way?”
“Or else that she is herself taking it. But I, who have known her longer than Knox has, feel certain that she is not one to do anything of the sort. Besides, you would have found it out long ago.”
“I protest I do not understand you,” spoke madame, earnestly. “What is it that she could take? She has taken the medicine that comes from your surgery. She has taken nothing else.”
“Knox thinks she is being drugged.”
“Drugged! Lady Jenkins drugged? How, drugged? What with? What for? Who would drug her?”
“There it is; who would do it?” said the old doctor, interrupting the torrent of words poured forth in surprise. “I confess I think the symptoms point to it. But I don’t see how it could be accomplished and you not detect it, considering that you are so much with her.”
“Why, I hardly ever leave her, day or night,” cried madame. “My bedroom, as you know, is next to hers, and I sleep with the intervening door open. There is no more chance, sir, that she could be drugged than that I could be.”
“When Knox first spoke of it to me I was pretty nearly startled out of my senses,” went on Tamlyn. “For I caught up a worse notion than he meant to convey—that she was being systematically poisoned.”
A dark, vivid, resentful crimson dyed madame’s face. The suggestion seemed to be a reproof on her vigilance.
“Poisoned!” she repeated in angry indignation. “How dare Dr. Knox suggest such a thing?”