“Not quite,” said Watchman. “Lots of people can’t stand the sight of their own blood. The poison-scare’s much more unusual. But you don’t mean to tell me, do you, Norman, that because at an early age you helped your brother in a play about cyanide you’d feel definitely uncomfortable if I finished my story?”

Cubitt drained his tankard and set it down on the table.

“If you’re hell-bent on your beastly story—” he said.

“It was only that I was present at the autopsy on this woman who died of cyanide poisoning. When they opened her up, I fainted. Not from emotion but from the fumes. The pathologist said I had a pronounced idiosyncrasy for the stuff. I was damned ill after it. It nearly did for me.”

Cubitt wandered over to the door and lifted his pack.

“I’ll clean up,” he said, “and join you for the dart game.”

“Splendid, old boy,” said Parish. “We’ll beat them tonight.”

“Do our damned’st, anyway,” said Cubitt. At the doorway he turned and looked mournfully at Parish.

“She’s asking about perspective,” he said.

“Give her rat-poison,” said Parish.

“Shut up,” said Cubitt, and went out.

“What was he talking about?” demanded Watchman.

Parish smiled. “He’s got a girl-friend. Wait till you see. Funny chap! He went quite green over your story. Sensitive old beggar, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes,” agreed Watchman lightly. “I must say I’m sensitive in a rather different key where cyanide’s concerned, having been nearly killed by it.”

“I didn’t know you could have a — what did you call it?”

“An idiosyncrasy.”

“It means you’d go under to a very small amount?”

“It does.” Watchman yawned and stretched himself full-length on the settle.

“I’m sleepy,” he said. “It’s the sea air. A very pleasant state of being. Just tired enough, with the impressions of a long drive still floating about behind one’s consciousness. Flying hedges, stretches of road that stream out before one’s eyes. The relaxation of arrival setting in. Very pleasant!”