Madam Sapphira by Edgar Saltus

The Why had gone. He was no longer haunted, he knew. There are people to whom doubt is better than certainty and Nevius was one of them. The problem had occupied him; that gone he had nothing left -- a duty merely -- to which he presently turned his attention.

Of the incidents remote and dismissed which had suddenly returned was one he detained -- the memory of a young girl examining her wedding gifts. Among these gifts were two vinaigrettes, and he could see her still, holding one, then the other to the mirror to judge which was the more becoming. The choice made, the rejected vinaigrette had been returned to Tiffany and some exchange effected.

It was the one incident of the old prenuptial days that had jarred, and it had particularly jarred in that the vinaigrette which had been exchanged, was the gift to his bride of one whose hand he had held and whose hand he had loved to hold. Apart, then, from any sentiment which he might have attached to the tribute, the commercial aspect with which it was regarded annoyed, and continued to annoy until, other incidents intervening, it was forgot.

But it had returned, and of an afternoon when the heat was such that man and beast fell dead in the streets he ventured out to shop. There was a scent-bottle, covered with gems, one which it would delight any woman to have and display, which, without any difficulty, he made his own. And there was also a phial of anhydrous prussic acid -- but that he did not obtain until he had produced a jumble of Latin and hieroglyphics.

Later, in the quiet of the library, with mouth and nostrils bandaged, his eyes protected, his hands well gloved, he poured the contents of the phial into the jewelled toy, and re-stoppering both bottles, removed the bandage and breathed. It is not every neophyte whose initial effort in laboratory work is attended with such success, and that fact he doubtless appreciated, for having breathed, he smiled. If all else failed, might he not turn chemist? The idea must have amused him, for, as he put the vinaigrette back in its case, the smile was still there, and as he wrapped up the case and directed it, he laughed. But then, chemistry is one of the most delightful pursuits imaginable, and he had been so long unoccupied that a possibility with even less perspective might have charmed.

Yet where, apart from Ceylon, is that prospect which always pleases? An hour had not passed before the vistas disclosed must have lost their allurement. The laughter, the smile had gone. In their place came a look perplexing and enervating, and through the quiet of the house pulsated a throbbing so loud, so loud, that to still it, perhaps, too, to rid his mind of chemistry and its charms, he drank.

It was the drink, no doubt, which on the morrow confined him to his room. But such a sedative is rest that on the succeeding day he was able to get to the floor below and breakfast too. Melon is not unpalatable at any hour, and when he had eaten a little he was quite in the humor to smoke a cigarette and learn the news of the day. It was the Times which he selected for the purpose, and after reading of the Homestead rebellion as he turned from the fourth page where the editorials are to the fifth where the advertisements such as death notices appear, the paper fell from him, the name Nevius had jumped out and stabbed him in the eyes.

He got to the window, the court was deluged with sunshine, and on the fence a piebald cat was enjoying a promenade.

But could it be possible that that package had been sent? Had he not hid it somewhere?

With a sidelong suspicious glance the cat continued its gingerly way.

Could it be possible? he repeated. But what had he done with it? Why could he not collect his thoughts? He went upstairs, and down once more, and up again. Patrick appeared, he fled away. He could not go out, he could not sit still, he could neither write nor speak, nor act nor think, and in his bedroom where he hid at last, he locked the door.

If rest be a sedative, suspense is not. And do what he might, suspense urged him from sofa to armchair, from armchair to sofa, and finally to the library, that he might see for himself if the package were there.

On the table was a telegram. It was from Bronx he knew. But not a bit.

"Touraine sails at noon tomorrow. Your berth retained. Have wired congratulations to Mrs. A.

"A. B. Fenwick Chisholm-Jones. "

Congratulations to Mrs. A! Who was Mrs. A? He put the telegram down and looked about. There was no one to reply. But who was Mrs. A? What had he to do with any Mrs. A?

Again he looked about. But still there was no one. Yet he must ask, he must speak, he must know. The bell was there, he rang it but could not wait and ran to the hall.

"Patrick," he called. "Patrick."

"Yes, sir, coming, sir."

"Patrick," he cried, while the man was yet below. "Patrick, what is there in the papers today?"