"Now, Jervis," said Thorndyke, as he closed the office door, "what are we to do?"
"We must go, I suppose," I replied. "It seems a pretty urgent case."
"It does," he agreed. "Of course, the man may be telling the truth, after all."
"You don't think he is, then?"
"No. It is a plausible tale, but there is too much arsenic in that arrowroot. Still, I think I ought to go. It is an ordinary professional risk. But there is no reason why you should put your head into the noose."
"Thank you," said I, somewhat huffily. "I don't see what risk there is, but if any exists I claim the right to share it."
"Very well," he answered with a smile, "we will both go. I think we can take care of ourselves."
He re-entered the sitting-room, and announced his decision to Mr. Barton, whose relief and gratitude were quite pathetic.
"But," said Thorndyke, "you have not yet told us where your brother lives."
"Rexford," was the reply—"Rexford, in Essex. It is an out-of-the-way place, but if we catch the seven-fifteen train from Liverpool Street, we shall be there in an hour and a half."