Upon a label pasted on the glass, were two words in Greek characters, "διφθ. ποξιν."
Here, in this vessel of gelatinous liquid, lurked the destroying army of diphtheria bacilli, millions strong.
The man held up the candle and its light fell full upon the neat cursive Greek, so plain for him to read.
He stared at it with focussed eyes. His head was pushed forward a little and oscillated slowly from side to side. The sweat ran down it and fell with little splashes upon the floor.
Then his hand began to tremble and the light flickered and danced in the recesses of the cupboard.
He turned away, shaking, and set the candle end upon the table. It swayed, toppled over, flared for a moment and went out.
But he could not wait to light it again. His attendant devil was straying, he must be called back . . . to help.
Lothian plunged his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a flat flask of silver. It was full of undiluted whiskey.
He took a long steady pull, and the fire went through him instantly.
With firm fingers now, he screwed on the top of the flask and re-lit the candle stump. Then he took the marked phial from the cupboard shelf and set it on the table.