And he put the pieces out into his hand to show that he chewed his'n up, not being willing to wait fifteen minutes for a verdict from his digestive ornaments. Then he put 'em back into his mouth and chewed 'em and swallowed 'em down like it was coughdrops. Henry has got sweat breaking out all over his face, and he tries to make fur the door, but he falls down on to a sofa. “This is murder,” he says, weaklike. And he tries to get up agin, but this time he falls to the floor in a dead faint. “It's a dern short fifteen minutes,” I thinks to myself. “That perfessor must of put more science into Henry's pill than he thought he did fur it to of knocked him out this quick. It ain't skeercly three minutes.” When Henry falls the woman staggers and tries to throw herself on top of him. The corners of her mouth was all drawed down, and her eyes was turned up. But she don't yell none. She can't. She tries, but she just gurgles in her throat. The perfessor won't let her fall acrost Henry. He ketches her. “Sit up, Jane,” he says, with that Estelle look on to his face, “and let us have a talk.” She looks at him with no more sense in her face than a piece of putty has got. But she can't look away from him. And I'm kind o' paralyzed, too. If that feller laying on the floor had only jest kicked oncet, or grunted, or done something, I could of loosened up and yelled, and I would of. I just _needed_ to fetch a yell. But Henry ain't more'n dropped down there till I'm feeling just like he'd _always_ been there, and I'd _always_ been staring into that room, and the last word anyone spoke was said hundreds and hundreds of years ago. “You're a murderer,” says Jane in a whisper, looking at the perfessor in that stare-eyed way. “You're a _murderer,_” she says, saying it like she was trying to make herself feel sure he really was one. “Murder!” says the perfessor. “Did you think I was going to run any chances for a pup like him? He's scared, that's all. He's just fainted through fright. He's a coward. Those pills were both just bread and sugar. He'll be all right in a minute or two. I've just been showing you that the fellow hasn't got nerve enough nor brains enough for a fine woman like you, Jane,” he says. Then Jane begins to sob and laugh, both to oncet, kind o' wildlike, her voice clucking like a hen does, and she says: “It's worse then, it's worse! It's worse for me than if it were a murder! Some farces can be more tragic than any tragedy ever was,” she says. Or they was words to that effect.