“Abel’s rat-poisoning in the garage,” said Parish. “They’ve all gone out to see he doesn’t give himself a lethal dose of prussic acid.”

“Good Lord!” Watchman ejaculated. “Is the old fool playing round with cyanide?”

“Apparently… Why wouldn’t we have a drink?”

“Why not, indeed,” agreed Cubitt, “Hi, Will!”

He went to the bar and leant over it, looking into the Public.

“The whole damn place is deserted. I’ll get our drinks and chalk them up. Beer?”

“Beer it is,” said Parish.

“What form of cyanide has Abel got hold of?” Watchman asked.

“Eh?” said Parish savagely. “Oh, let’s see now. I fetched it for him from Illington. The chemist hadn’t got any of the stock rat-banes but he poked round and found this stuff. I think he called it Scheele’s acid.”

“Good God!”

“What? Yes, that was it — Scheele’s acid. And then he said he thought the fumes of Scheele’s acid mightn’t be strong enough so he gingered it up a bit.”

“With what, in the name of all the Borgias?”

“Well — with prussic acid, I imagine.”

“You imagine! You imagine!”

“He said that was what it was. He said it was acid or something. I wouldn’t know. He warned me in sixteen different positions to be careful. Suggested Abel wear a half-crown gas mask, so I bought it in case Abel hadn’t got one. Abel’s using gloves and everything.”

“It’s absolutely monstrous!”

“I had to sign for it, old boy,” said Parish. “Very solemn we were. God, he was a stupid man! Bone from the eyes up, but so, so kind.”

Watchman said angrily: “I should damn’ well think he was stupid. Do you know that twenty-five drops of Scheele’s acid will kill a man in a few minutes? Why, good Lord, in Rex v. Bull, if I’m not mistaken, it was alleged that accused gave only seven drops. I myself defended a medical student who gave twenty minims in error. Charge of manslaughter. I got him off but— how’s Abel using it?”