Sir Tristram.
I believe you. [Pointing to the paper.] Strychnine! Sixteen grains!
Salome and Sheba.
[Clinging to each other terrified.] Oh!
The Dean.
Strychnine! Summon my devoted servant Blore, in whose presence the innocuous mixture was compounded. [Georgiana rings the bell. The girls hide behind the window curtains.] This analysis is simply the pardonable result of over-enthusiasm on the part of our local chemist.
Georgiana.
You’re a disgrace to the pretty little police station where you slept last night!
[Blore enters and stands unnoticed.
The Dean.