Deadly Nightshade by Elizabeth Daly

grandmother, did you?” Loring’s smile widened. “Great character, isn’t she? You ought to try to pin her down, sometime; ask her which James is her forefather. She’ll begin to hedge, get on her dignity, imply that it’s a question of world politics, and snub the life out of you.”
    â€œThrones would shake if she told all she knew?”
    â€œThey would; like jelly.”
    â€œLoring ran me down there after—afterwards, to look at the boy,” said Bartram.
    â€œSo that’s where you got to?” George’s face expressed surprise. “We couldn’t imagine—”
    â€œYes. He would do it. I don’t think that’s much of a place for a little fellow to convalesce in. Mrs. Stuart seems willing to hand him over.”
    â€œYou’re weakening,” said Loring, triumphantly.
    â€œWell, I am. Oh, bring him along, bring him along! That is, if Miss Ridgeman will stand by, and you’ll let your Serena and her husband come over and do the housework. I’m not going to leave Annie here when I leave; she’s heading for a breakup, or I’m much mistaken.”
    Loring and Miss Ridgeman exchanged glances of mutual pleasure and congratulation, and the nurse, evidently heartened by her employer’s reference to her, came forward and offered him the tumbler; it contained a thick, yellowish fluid from which Bartram winced away in disgust.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he inquired.
    â€œOnly your malted milk, Mr. Bartram.”
    â€œTake it out of my sight, for goodness’ sake! I’ll consider a drink of rye whisky.”
    â€œDoctor Loring—”
    â€œBother Doctor Loring. I won’t have that stuff.”
    â€œOh, yes, you will, old boy; no whisky for you, this morning; that caffeine I shot into you is all the stimulant you need for a while. Down with it, now; you haven’t eaten a mouthful of solid food for—days, is it, Miss Ridgeman?” asked Loring.
    â€œNot much food, Doctor.”
    â€œDown with it.”
    Bartram took the glass, frowned at it, and emptied it. Miss Ridgeman removed it, and herself, from the room. Mr. George Bartram, who had been sitting as if dumfounded, asked: “What’s all this about the gypsy?”
    â€œOh—Loring thinks I might take him in.”
    â€œTake him in?” George Bartram stared at Loring.
    â€œYes. Adopt him, you know.”
    â€œOne of my prescriptions.” Loring looked down at his patient with a smile, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a low voice, “Good for you.”
    â€œAdopt that kid?” George Bartram’s face was a mask of incredulity.
    Mrs. Bartram, who had seemed almost as greatly taken aback as her husband showed himself to be, intervened:
    â€œWhat a perfectly lovely idea, Carroll! Perfectly lovely. But do you know all about him? They are so careful in the hospitals, and nurseries, and places; they never let people adopt children if they don’t know the inheritance. It might be so bad.” She, also, glanced with surprise and reproof at Loring, who answered cheerfully:
    â€œI think it’s much more sporting to take them sight unseen, as you might say. If he turns out a horse thief or a nitwit, Carroll can turn the psychiatrists on him. Whatever happens to him, he’ll be the dickens of a lot better off than he’d be in a Boston slum.”
    â€œWell, I think it’s just lovely. Don’t you think it’s lovely, George?”
    The warning note in his wife’s voice was not unheeded by her husband. He said: “Certainly, certainly,” and looked bewildered.
    â€œAnd now to the real business in hand.” Bartram turned to a small table at his elbow, and lifted therefrom a good-sized leather box, which he placed on Mrs. Bartram’s lap. “Here you are, Adèle; I hereby appoint you guardian of this on behalf of your daughter, Irma Bartram, and I hope you’ll get