"Show her into the consulting-room," said.
I went there a moment later, and to my amazement found myself face to face with Nurse Collins.
"Now, what do you want?" I said in a stern voice, which could scarcely conceal my inward rejoicing.
"To confess—to confess," she said, in a broken, highly-strung, nervous tone. "Oh, Dr. Halifax, I have only just made the discovery. Pray do not lose a moment in going to Miss Wilton. If you see her at once there is just a possibility of her being saved."
"What is the matter?" I asked. "Tell me your story briefly."
"Oh, it is this," she exclaimed, clasping and unclasping her thin hands. "Poor, poor young lady, I have given her the wrong prescription! I only found this out an hour ago."
"Sit down," I said. "You must tell me the whole story in as few words as you can."
"I don't want to be a murderer," she began. "I—I draw the line at that. I—I don't mind most things, but I draw the line at murder."
"You will be a murderer," I said, "unless you can collect your thoughts sufficiently to tell me at once what is the matter."
"And you will use your knowledge against me, sir?"
"That I cannot say."
"Well, I don't much care whether you do or not," she continued. "If only Miss Wilton's life is saved, nothing else matters. This is my story. I was called in to nurse Miss Wilton six months ago. She was suffering very terribly at the time from the effects of a feverish attack. Her nerves were much disordered; she was sleepless, and she used to undergo agonies of pain from neuralgia. Dr. Johnson, of Queen Anne's Street, was attending her. He prescribed small doses of morphia, which I was to inject in the usual way with a hypodermic syringe. The morphia gave her both relief and pleasure. By-and-by she got stronger, the pain disappeared, and Dr. Johnson ordered me to cease administering the morphia. I think I should have done so, but for Miss Wilton herself. She had already acquired a certain liking for the drug, she could not sleep well without it, and she begged me very hard to repeat the doses. I refused. She said she would pay me if I gave her relief. I was in debt, and I wanted money badly. I do not pretend to be scrupulous, and I quickly yielded to temptation. I stayed on with Miss Wilton: I repeated the morphia doses, and in an incredibly short space of time, I had her in my power. She could not live without the drug, and was willing to pay me anything to obtain it. She had plenty of money, and was the possessor of many valuable jewels. One by one these jewels were handed over to me in exchange for morphia. I was obliged to leave her at last, but I supplied her with a syringe and a couple of bottles of the medicine; I also gave her minute directions how much to inject at a time. When she sent for me three days ago, her supply had unexpectedly run out. I obeyed her summons at once, and would have remained with her, but for my interview with you. You frightened me with regard to her state; I saw that you suspected me. If it were known that I had played thus, almost with the life of a patient, I should have been ruined. I did not dare to run the risk of discovery. I injected as large a dose of morphia as I could with safety into my patient's arm, and then told her that I must leave her. Before I went away I gave her a small supply of morphia, enough to last her for a day. I also gave her, or thought I did, the prescription which Dr. Johnson had given me for her six months ago. She paid me, of course, for my services. I helped her to dress for the ball, and then I left."
"Miss Wilton paid you with her diamond pendant," I interrupted.
The nurse's eyes flashed an angry, frightened fire.
"How can you tell?" she exclaimed.
"No matter—proceed, please."
"I have not much more to tell," continued Nurse Collins; "my story is nearly over. I have only now to reveal to you my awful discovery. An hour ago, I was looking through some prescriptions, when I suddenly discovered that I had not given Miss Wilton the one which contained morphia. On the contrary, I had given her another prescription, which in her case would probably lead to fatal results."
"What was in it?" I asked.
"Strychnine, Dr. Halifax. Strychnine in a form for hypodermic injection. This prescription had been given to me a year ago by a physician for a male patient who was suffering from paralysis. Now, sir, you know why I apply to you. Don't mind me. I promise not to hide if I'm wanted. Go at once to Miss Wilton. She may not have been able to have the prescription made up. Go to her and save her."
"Where am I to go?" I asked.
