Nobody laughed.
Nobody registered it.
Hoffbein breathed like a returning pearl diver and enunciated carefully, “Read it, Harrison.”
As Dr. MacArthur returned to his chair and Dr. Harrison cleared his throat, the door into the corridor opened slightly and Princeton Peters’ peach-blossom face vied with the morning sun. Cub Sterling saw it and winced. Before any other man had taken it in, Princeton tiptoed into the room and his lavender eyes had assumed their death-mask purple.
With a precision which carried the force of bass waves against a rock ledge, Harrison began engraving into his brain and into theirs, the report of the second assistant chemist. As he turned the page to Dr. Heddis’ supplement, the men stirred nervously and Hoffbein’s eyes took on a mountain-out-of-molehill scorn.
Dr. Heddis’ addition stated: “The routine tests, afore referred to, are being checked by my first assistant, Dr. Maids, who returned with me; so far they reveal nothing other than the ingredients of a sleeping potion. These ingredients tally with those prescribed in the order filed upon the patient’s chart. Toxicology, like other branches of the Profession, is partly guess work. Since the cadaver bears evidence of a hypodermic puncture, and indications are that the potion was not administered that way, my belief is that this patient died of a syringe of some obscure drug.
“Therefore I am immediately beginning upon the obscure tests. It may take days to prove or disprove my conclusions. In the meantime, I repeat, a sleeping potion prescribed in capsule form, which the pharmacy compounded and the student nurse states she administered, explains neither the syringe puncture nor the death.
“Indications, it seems to me, point to an obscure and deadly drug. Possibly a drug which may be administered per os, and may have been so administered in the two previous cases. Any findings will be immediately reported to the General Staff or Dr. MacArthur.”
As the last words scraped into the consciousness of the men, a solemnity comparable to that which shadows the faces of pallbearers as they watch the coffin of a beloved comrade lowered, blanketed the staff. Whatever their petty hates and puerile quarrels, so far as the reputation of the Elijah Wilson was concerned, they agreed. It must not be damaged.
“He might be wrong,” Prissy quavered.