"No. Only once. There was about three grains of strychnine in the grapefruit that Captain Sharpless carried up to her on Thursday afternoon."
Hubert passed a hand over his smooth hair.
"Now there, my dear sir, permit me to point out that you are talking nonsense."
"No nonsense about it. It's true. Witnesses: one stomach-pump, Dr. Nithsdale, one hospital orderly, me. Were you in the house when Sharpless took the grapefruit up to Mrs. Fane?"
"I was. I remember passing him in the hall. But—"
"Oh? Did you have any conversation with him?"
"Yes. The conversation was as follows. As I passed him I said, 'Grapefruit, eh?' To which he replied, 'Grapefruit,' and went on. Our conversation was distinguished neither for length nor for brilliance of repartee."
"O temporal" said H.M. "O mores! O hell!"
"Cicero," observed Hubert, "would seem, in this instance, less to the point than the Roman Sybil. Sir, you worry me. What is all this?"
H.M. was paying no attention. He was blinking owlishly at the rose-garden. The trellises supporting many of the roses were narrow, of very light wood, in diamond-shaped sections set one above the other, and painted white. Passing from his dour mood, H.M. regarded them with fascination.