once. “One more question, mademoiselle,” said he, imparting as much solemnity to his tone as he could. “Do you know what liquid it was that M. de Chalusse took this morning?”
“Alas! no, monsieur.”
“It is very important that I should know. The accuracy of my diagnosis is dependent upon it. What has become of the vial?”
“I think M. de Chalusse replaced it in his escritoire.”
The physician pointed to an article of furniture to the left of the fireplace: “There?” he asked.
“Yes, monsieur.”
He deliberated, but at last conquering his hesitation, he said: “Could we not obtain this vial?”
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. “I haven’t the key,” she faltered, in evident embarrassment.
M. Casimir approached: “It must be in the count’s pocket, and if mademoiselle will allow me——”
But she stepped back with outstretched arms as if to protect the escritoire. “No,” she exclaimed, “no—the escritoire shall not be touched. I will not permit it——”
“But, mademoiselle,” insisted the doctor, “your father——”
“The Count de Chalusse is not my father!”
Dr. Jodon was greatly disconcerted by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s vehemence. “Ah!” said he, in three different tones, “ah! ah!”
In less than a second, a thousand strange and contradictory suppositions darted through his brain. Who, then, could this girl be, if she were not Mademoiselle de Chalusse? What right had she in that house? How was it that she reigned as a sovereign there? Above all, why this angry outburst for no other apparent cause than a very natural and exceedingly insignificant request on his part?
However, she had regained her self-possession, and it was easy to see by her manner that she was seeking some means of escape from threatened danger. At last she found it. “Casimir,” she said, authoritatively, “search M. de Chalusse’s pocket for
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