The Flask which Held but a Drop

It was the night before the wedding. Though Sinclair, and not myself, was the happy man, I had my own causes for excitement, and, finding the heat of the billiard-room insupportable, I sought the veranda for a solitary smoke in sight of the ocean and a full moon.

I was in a condition of rapturous, if unreasoning, delight. That afternoon a little hand had lingered in mine for just an instant longer than the circumstances of the moment strictly required; and small as the favour may seem to those who do not know Dorothy Camerden, to me, who realised fully both her delicacy and pride, it was a sign that my long, if secret, devotion was about to be rewarded, and that at last I was free to cherish hopes whose alternative had once bid fair to wreck the happiness of my life.

I was revelling in the felicity of these anticipations, and contrasting this hour of ardent hope with others of whose dissatisfaction and gloom I was yet mindful, when a sudden shadow fell across the broad band of light issuing from the library window, and Sinclair stepped out.

He had the appearance of being disturbed — very much disturbed, I thought, for a man on the point of marrying the woman for whom he professed to entertain the one profound passion of his life; but remembering his frequent causes of annoyance — causes quite apart from his bride and her personal attributes — I kept on placidly smoking till I felt his hand on my shoulder, and turned to see that the moment was a serious one.

“I have something to say to you,” he whispered. “Come where we shall run less risk of being disturbed.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, facing him with curiosity, if not with alarm. “I never saw you look like this before. Has the old lady taken this last minute to ——”

“Hush!” he prayed, emphasising the word with a curt gesture not to be mistaken. “The little room over the west porch is empty just now. Follow me there.”

With a sigh for the cigar I had so lately lighted, I tossed it into the bushes and sauntered in after him. I thought I understood his trouble. The prospective bride was young — a mere slip of a girl indeed — bright, beautiful, and proud, yet with odd little restraints in her manner and language, due probably to her peculiar bringing up, and the surprise, not yet overcome, of finding herself, after an isolated, if not despised, childhood, the idol of society and the recipient of general homage. The fault was not with her. But she had for guardian (alas! my dear girl had the same) an aunt who was a gorgon. This aunt must have been making herself disagreeable to the prospective bridegroom, and he, being quick to take offence — quicker than myself, it was said — had probably retorted in a way to make things unpleasant. As he was a guest in the house, he and all the other members of the bridal party — Mrs. Armstrong having insisted upon opening her magnificent Newport villa for this wedding and its attendant festivities — the matter might well look black to him. Yet I did not feel disposed to take much interest in it, even though his case might be mine some day, with all its accompanying drawbacks.

But once confronted with Sinclair in the well-lighted room above, I perceived that I had better drop all selfish regrets and give my full attention to what he had to say. For his eye, which had flashed with an unusual light at dinner, was clouded now; and his manner, when he strove to speak, betrayed a nervousness I had considered foreign to his nature ever since the day I had seen him rein in his horse so calmly on the extreme edge of a precipice, where a fall would have meant certain death, not only to himself, but also to the two riders who unwittingly were pressing closely behind him.

“Walter,” he faltered, “something has happened — something dreadful, something unprecedented! You may think me a fool — God knows, I would be glad to be proved so! — but this thing has frightened me. I”— he paused and pulled himself together —“I will tell you about it, then you can judge for yourself. I am in no condition ——”

“Don’t beat about the bush! Speak up! What’s the matter?”

He gave me an odd look full of gloom — a look I felt the force of, though I could not interpret it; then, coming closer, though there was no one within hearing — possibly no one any nearer than the drawing-room below — he whispered in my ear:

“I have lost a little vial of the deadliest drug ever compounded — a Venetian curiosity, which I was foolish enough to take out and show the ladies, because the little box which holds it is such an exquisite example of jeweller’s work. There’s death in its taste, almost in its smell; and it’s out of my hands, and ——”

“Well, I’ll tell you how to fix that up,” I put in with my usual frank decision. “Order the music stopped; call everybody into the drawing-room, and explain the dangerous nature of this toy. After which, if anything happens, it will not be your fault, but that of the person who has so thoughtlessly appropriated it.”

His eyes, which had been resting eagerly on mine, shifted aside in visible embarrassment.

“Impossible! It would only aggravate matters, or, rather, would not relieve my fears at all. The person who took it knew its nature very well, and that person ——”

“Oh, then you know who took it!” I broke in in increasing astonishment. “I thought from your manner that ——”

“No,” he moodily corrected, “I do not know who took it. If I did, I should not be here. That is, I do not know the exact person. Only ——” Here he again eyed me with his former singular intentness, and, observing that I was nettled, made a fresh beginning. “When I came here I brought with me a case of rarities chosen from my various collections. In looking over them preparatory to making a present to Gilbertine, I came across the little box I have just mentioned. It is made of a single amethyst, and contains — or so I was assured when I bought it — a tiny flask of old but very deadly poison. How it came to be included with the other precious and beautiful articles I had picked out for her cadeau I cannot say. But there it was; and conceiving that the sight of it would please the ladies, I carried it down into the library, and in an evil hour called three or four of those about me to inspect it. This was while you boys were in the billiard-room, so the ladies could give their entire attention to the little box, which is certainly worth the most careful scrutiny.

“I was holding it out on the palm of my hand, where it burned with a purple light which made more than one feminine eye glitter, when somebody inquired to what use so small and yet so rich a receptacle could be put. The question was such a natural one I never thought of evading it; besides, I enjoy the fearsome delight which women take in the marvellous. Expecting no greater result than lifted eyebrows or flushed cheeks, I answered by pressing a little spring in the filigree-work surrounding the gem. Instantly the tiniest of lids flew back, revealing a crystal flask of such minute proportions that the usual astonishment followed its disclosure.

“‘You see!’ I cried, ‘it was made to hold that!’ And moving my hand to and fro under the gas jet, I caused to shine in their eyes the single drop of yellow liquid it still held. ‘Poison!’ I impressively announced. ‘This trinket may have adorned the bosom of a Borgia or flashed from the arm of some great Venetian lady as she flourished her fan between her embittered heart and the object of her wrath or jealousy.’

“The first sentence had come naturally, but the last was spoken at random, and almost unconsciously. For at the utterance of the word ‘poison’ a quickly suppressed cry had escaped the lips of some one behind me, which, while faint enough to elude the attention of any ear less sensitive than my own, contained such an astonishing, if involuntary, note of self-betrayal that my mind grew numb with horror, and I stood staring at the fearful toy which had called up such a revelation of — what? That is what I am here to ask, first of myself, then of you. For the two women pressing behind me were ——”

“Who?” I sharply demanded, partaking in some indefinable way of his excitement and alarm.

“Gilbertine Murray and Dorothy Camerden!”— h............