Once she was in the right state, I could
persuade her to give us her jewels and some cheque. Then we wouldn't let
the grass grow under our feet. We'd be off--and in no danger."
"There's no drug of that sort," said Dauntrey.
"I don't believe you. Oh, say there is! I don't know what I may be
driven to do, with my own hands, if you refuse to help me."
"I tell you there's no such thing--that isn't dangerous to life."
She caught at this admission. "What is the thing in your mind?" she
whispered tensely.
"A plant that grows in this garden," he admitted sullenly. "You must
have smelt the perfume when we drove in."
"Datura! I remember. The Kaffirs make a decoction of it in South Africa.
They think it's a love potion."
"Yes, that's what I mean. There are two ways of using it. One way it's a
deadly poison. The other makes those who take the stuff stupid. But even
so it's dangerous. I've seen one or two victims of that experiment who
didn't come back to their senses, but remained dull and melancholy,
caring for nothing and nobody."
"That's a risk we must run," said Eve, with the briskness of hope and a
decision arrived at. "It's simply providential!"
"Good Lord, what a word to use!"
"It slipped out. I suppose, after all, I'm conventional. Providence and
destiny are the same. Think how everything has worked up to this. Even
the datura in the garden!"
"It can stay there!" Dauntrey blurted out, savagely.
With a hand on each of his shoulders, she held herself off from her
husband at arm's length, looking him straight in the eyes with her
level, compelling gaze.
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