“Here, sir, where the writing has run a bit on the label. Could that smear be morphia? The stuff in the bottle is all right, I fancy, but it'll be sent to you to-morrow to test at your leisure.”
“Leisure!” groaned the analyst, “you're a wag. My leisure!” He took the bottle and disappeared through a door to return in a couple of minutes. “It is morphia. And in a solution strong enough to kill an elephant. Don't ask me for exact quantities, I'm off.”
“Very much obliged to you, sir,” grinned the Chief Inspector, as he carefully replaced the bottle, and followed the doctor at a more leisurely pace out of the garden.
“The case begins to move at last,” he murmured to himself with satisfaction. He proceeded to jog along still further by ringing the private bell of Mr. Redman, the chemist, until that gentleman opened the door.
At the sight of the officer, whom he knew, his face softened a little from its “disturbed-at-Sunday-dinner” severity.
“Anything I can do for you, officer?” He waved him into the passage.
“It's just this, Mr. Redman,” this time the print of young Eames was produced. “Do you remember selling anything to this gentleman any day last week, or say since about July 25th?”
The chemist shook his head.
“But my assistant hasn't gone home yet; he dines with us on Sundays, we keep the shop open till twelve, you know—I'll call him.”
The assistant looked curiously at the snapshot.