She had swished away, she had been gone for a long time probably when Sarah suddenly realized that she ought to stop her, pour out the coffee, so no one would drink it. But then the so-called coffee was bad enough at best, cold it was all but undrinkable -- especially that cup!

She was deeply, horribly sure that Lucien had filled it with opium. She had quarreled with Lucien, she had resisted his demands for money -- and if she died, by the provisions of her marriage contract, Lucien would inherit legally not only the immediate sum of gold under the floorboards in the office, but later, when the war was over, her father's entire estate.

She felt cold and hot, sticky and chilly at the same time. Now wait a minute, she told herself, think about it; Lucien is not the only person in this house who could have put opium in that coffee.

She had lost a bottle of opium -- but that was on the trip from New Orleans. Or someone had taken it during her first day at Honotassa. Yes, she had missed it after her talk with Emile, after dinner, just before Emile was shot. Rilly or Glendora had entered her room while she slept, bringing back her washed clothes. So somebody else could have come in, too -- then or later while she was out of the room. It would have been easy to identify as opium by its odor.

It was not very reasonable to believe that Lucien had procured unprocurable opium and come back to Honotassa with a formed plan to murder her. He didn't even know that she was there. And he certainly couldn't have guessed that she would resist his demand for the gold or that she was not the yielding -- yes, and credible fool he had every right to expect. No, he had been surprised, unpleasantly surprised, but surprised.