He handed it to Dorothy, who broke off the top of the neck with a sharp tap against the edge of the stool.
"Has any of you a knife?" she asked. "Thank you, Archibald. Open the blade and introduce the point between the teeth as the will directs."
They acted as might a doctor confronted by a patient whom he does not know exactly how to handle, but whom he nevertheless treats, without the slightest hesitation, according to the formal prescription in use in similar cases. They would see what happened. The essential thing was to carry out the instructions.
Archibald Webster did not find it easy to perform his task. The lips were tightly closed, the upper teeth, for the most part black and decayed, were so firmly wedged against the lower that the knife-point could not force its way between them. He had to introduce it sideways, and then raise the handle to force the jaws apart.
"Don't move," said Dorothy.
She bent down. Her right hand, holding the phial, tilted it gently. A few drops of a liquid of the color and odor of green Chartreuse fell between the lips; then an even trickle flowed from the phial, which was soon empty.
"That's done," she said, straightening herself.
Looking at her companions, she tried to smile. All of them were staring at the dead man.
She murmured: "We've got to wait. It doesn't work straightaway."
And as she uttered the words she thought: