"How did it happen? what have you taken?" inquired the doctor, eagerly.
"I took, by mistake, nearly a pint of antimonial wine."
"Then it must be removed instantly," said the doctor; and down the sick man's throat went one end of a long, flexible, India rubber tube, and pump! pump! pump! went the doctor's hand at the other end. The result was very palpable. About a pint of reddish fluid, strongly smelling of wine, came up, after which the instrument was withdrawn.
"There," said the doctor, "I guess that will do. Now let me give you an antidote." And a nauseous dose of something or other was mixed up and poured down, to take the place of what had just been removed.
"Do you feel any better now?" inquired the doctor, as he sat holding the pulse of the sick man, and scanning, with a professional eye, his pale face, that was covered with a clammy perspiration.
"A little," was the faint reply. "Do you think all danger is past?"
"Yes, I think so. The antidote I have given you will neutralize the effect of the drug, as far as it has passed into the system."
"I feel as weak as a rag," said the patient. "I am sure I could not bear my own weight. What a powerful effect it had!"
"Don't think of it," returned the doctor. "Compose yourself. There is now no danger to be apprehended whatever."
The wild flight of Jane through the street, and the hurried movements of the doctor, did not fail to attract attention. Inquiry followed, and it soon became noised about that Mr. Jones had taken poison.