In Inspector Agnew's office at the police station, Ag-new, H.M., and Masters had their chairs drawn up to the inspector's roll-top desk. On this desk, under the light, lay small groups of articles and official forms. Latest to be added to them was a small spoon, together with the analyst's report that in the coating of grapefruit juice adhering to the spoon he had found one-fifteenth of a grain of C 21 H 22 N 2 O 2, or strychnine.
Rain sluiced down the windows and gurgled along the gutters. It was nearly ten o'clock.
"We're agreed on that?" demanded H.M.
"Definitely," said Agnew.
"Oh, ah," conceded Masters, cautious even here.
"Good. Then what in the name of St. Ignatius's beans is delayin' you? Write out your warrant and get the chief constable to sign it. There's no honey-sweet savor about these murders. I tell you, our friend is too dangerous to be allowed loose any longer."
Masters fingered his chin.
"We're protecting that gal," pursued H.M., "as much as we can, without actually havin' a policeman sleeping with her—"
"Now, now!" growled Masters, his sense of the proprities offended.
"But we can't go on doin' it forever. Something's got to be done, and done quick."