Quite suddenly all Todmarsh's struggles ceased. For a minute he stood silent, motionless, save that he moved his manacled hands about in a side-long fashion. The inspector's keen eyes noted the long thumb, the short forefinger. At last, swift as lightning, Todmarsh raised his hands to his mouth.
“Escape you after all, inspector,” he said with a ghastly smile that dragged the lips from his teeth.
He swayed as he spoke, but the inspector did not stir. Instead, he surveyed his prisoner with an ironic twist of the mouth.
“I think not. You may feel a little sick, Mr. Todmarsh, that is all.”
“Cyanide of potassium,” Todmarsh gasped.
“You would have been dead if it had been,” the inspector said blandly. “But your tabloids are in my pocket, and mine, just a simple preparation with the faintest powdering of sulphate of zinc, have taken their place in yours.”
“A lie!” Todmarsh breathed savagely.
The inspector did not bandy words.
“Wait and see!” Then with a wave of his hand: “In with him, men!”
Todmarsh offered no further resistance, nor was any possible, surrounded as he was. He was hurried into the waiting car and the inspector followed him, just in time to see him slip to one side with a groan.