“Because it’s a curiosity, sir, as thousands would come to see. That bottle killed a man.”
“Let me look. I’ll give it you back.”
“Honour bright, sir?”
“Yes.”
Wimble unrolled the bottle from its cover and handed it to the lawyer, who took and examined it.
“Pish!” he said, looking at the limpid fluid within. “Water.”
“I was told it was chloral, sir.”
“Chloral?” cried Trevithick; “he died of an overdose of chloral.”
“Of course he did, sir,” said the barber triumphantly. “Now, sir, am I mad?”
Trevithick rose, and walked heavily up and down the room, like a small elephant seeking to quit its enclosure, but professional training came to his aid directly, and he reseated himself, looking quite calm.