“Beg pardon, sir? Oh, I see! That’s not hair dye, sir.”
“What is it, then? New dodge for bringing hair on bald places?”
He held out his hand for the bottle, and the barber passed it at once.
“Oh, no, sir,” he said, “nothing of that kind.”
With the action born of long habit, the doctor took out the cork, sniffed, held the bottle up to the light, shook it, applied a finger to the neck, shook the bottle again, tasted the drug at the end of his finger, and quickly spat it out.
“Why, Wimble, what the dickens are you doing with chloral?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing; only an old bottle.”
“Throw it away, then,” said the doctor hastily. “Don’t take it. Very bad habit. Recollect that’s how poor Mr Gartram came to his end. Good-day. Come round, then, at three.”
“Yes, sir, certainly, sir; but you forgot to—”
“Oh, I beg pardon. Yes, of course,” said the doctor, handing back the bottle, and then, beating himself with his right-hand glove, he walked hastily out of the place.