“Are those fatal doses, doctor?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer, sir.” Von Blon adopted a professorial manner. “One may have a tolerance for morphine and be capable of assimilating astonishingly large doses. But, ceteris paribus, six grains would certainly prove fatal. Regarding strychnine, toxicology gives us a very wide range as to lethal dosage, depending on the condition and age of the patient. The average fatal dose for an adult is, I should say, two grains, though death has resulted from administrations of one grain, or even less. And, on the other hand, recovery has taken place after as much as ten grains have been swallowed. Generally speaking, however, three and one-third grains would be sufficient to produce fatal results.”
When Von Blon had gone Markham gazed at Vance anxiously.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
“I don’t like it—I don’t at all like it.” Vance shook his head despairingly. “It’s dashed queer—the whole thing. And the doctor is worried, too. There’s a panic raging beneath his elegant façade. He’s in a blue funk—and it’s not because of the loss of his pills. He fears something, Markham. There was a strained, hunted look in his eyes.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he should be carrying such quantities of drugs about with him?”
“Not necessarily. Some doctors do it. The Continental M.D.s especially are addicted to the practice. And don’t forget Von Blon is German-trained. . . .” Vance glanced up suddenly. “By the by, what about those two wills?”
There was a look of astonished interrogation in Markham’s incisive stare, but he said merely:
“I’ll have them later this afternoon. Buckway has been laid up with a cold, but he promised to send me copies to-day.”
Vance got to his feet.