“Oh yes. There’s another point about the hyoscine. It’s kept in a bottle, which Thoms tells me is very out of date—it should be in an ampoule. Phillips, I suppose, doesn’t object, as he always uses his own tablets. Now Jane Harden says that the bottle was full and that one injection has since been used. I’ve checked that. When I saw the bottle it was almost full. Thoms brought it to me.”

“Thoms did?” repeated Fox in his slow way.

“Yes. I got a sample and am having it analysed. If anyone has added water, the solution will be below strength.”

“Yes—but they might have managed to add more solution.”

“I don’t see how. Where would they get it from? It would have to be done there and then.”

Alleyn got up and walked about the room.

“You’ve never told me your views on intuition,” he said.

“I can’t say I’ve got any. No views, I mean—and no intuition either, for a matter of that. Very unimaginative I’ve always been. I recollect at school I was a poor hand at writing compositions, as they called them. Still I wouldn’t say,” said Fox cautiously, “that there is no such thing as intuition. I’ve known you come out rather strong in that line yourself.”

“Thank you, Fox. Well, the weird is upon me now, if that’s the expression. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. I’ve got a hunch that the Bolshie lot is not one of the principal factors. It’s a secondary theme in the bloody cantata. And yet, blast it, we’ll have to follow it up.”

“Oh well,” Fox rose to his feet. “What’s my job of work for to-day, sir?”