I only put enough into the drink to make him feel queer; I wouldn't have killed him then for anything. I should have no one to play chess with if he were gone.
We started once again, and twice during the game I fancied I heard a movement outside the door. Could Jacques possibly be waiting and watching? I must be careful—surely he had not seen me doctor the whisky-and-soda?
If he had, trouble was brewing.
As time passed, I noticed that Friende was getting pale, and, suddenly, without a moment's warning, he dropped off his chair in a dead faint. Before I could do more, his man Jacques was in the room.
He picked his master up, undid his collar and shirt and laid him on the sofa, taking no notice whatever of me until these actions were completed. Then, his little eyes glaring furiously at me, he said:
"If he dies, I know how he was killed. I saw you put something in his drink—I watched you—I thought you were trying to do him good, but now I see—you—a doctor—doing this for a paltry ten pounds."
"My dear Jacques, what are you"
"Don't talk to me," said the man,
