"Do you know how Barahier died?"
"Yes."
"Did the same hand slay him, that has sought Valartine's death?"
"Yes."
"She too will succumb?"
"No!" puffed the tuber triumphantly. And he blew a smoke-ring in the direction of a bottle containing a potion that one brought him every day.
"Then ... you have had the idea of preparing her for the poison, habituating her to it little by little?"
"Yes, yes, yes," said Dénéthoirtier, enchanted at being understood.
At this moment, Villefaramir returned with the athélas. "You requested athélas, or feuil du roi as we monarchists call it, or..."
"I care not whether you name it feuil du roi, athélas, sharcolat, or vodka-trotsky," said the doctor.
