“‘And how?’
“‘Before this train reaches London,’ he replied. ‘I am a dead man. There are two ways. I might say three, except that a pitch from the carriage might mean only a broken leg. But there is this—’ He drew a vial from his pocket and held it to the light. It contained an ounce or so of carbolic acid.
“‘One of the most corrosive of irritants,’ I observed.
“‘And there is—your package.’
“My first impulse was to force the vial from him. He was a slight man, and I could have overcome him with but little exertion. But the exertion I did not make. I should as soon have thought, when my rational humour reasserted itself, of knocking a man down and robbing him of his watch. The acid was as exclusively his property as the clothes he wore, and equally his life was his own. Had he declared his intention to hurl himself from the window, I might not have made way for him, but I should certainly not have obstructed his passage.
“But the morphine was mine, and that I should assist him was another matter, so I said:
“‘The package belongs to me.’
“‘And you will not exchange?’
“‘Certainly not.’
“He answered, almost angrily: