I gave him back the bullet, and he rolled it around on the palm of his hand.
"Little thing, isn't it?" he said. "We think we're lords of creation, until we see a quarter-inch bichloride tablet, or a bit of lead like this. Look here." He dived into his pocket again and drew out a roll of ordinary brown paper. When he opened it a bit of white chalk fell on the desk.
"Look at that," he said dramatically. "Kill an army with it, and they'd never know what struck them. Cyanide of potassium—and the druggist that sold it ought to be choked."
"Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. Burton smiled his cheerful smile.
"It's a beautiful case, all around," he said, as he got his hat. "I haven't had any Sunday dinner yet, and it's five o'clock. Oh—the cyanide? Clarkson, the cashier of the bank Fleming ruined, took a bite off that corner right there, this morning."
"Clarkson!" I exclaimed. "How is he?"
"God only knows," said Burton gravely, from which I took it Clarkson was dead.