“The essence of a detective story,” I said, “is to have a rare poison—if

possible something from South America, that nobody has ever heard of—something

that one obscure tribe of savages use to poison their arrows with. Death is

instantaneous, and Western science is powerless to detect it. That is the kind

of thing you mean?”

 

“Yes. Is there really such a thing?”

 

I shook my head regretfully.

 

“I’m afraid there isn’t. There’s _curare_, of course.”

 

I told her a good deal about curare, but she seemed to have lost interest once

more. She asked me if I had any in my poison cupboard, and when I replied in the

negative I fancy I fell in her estimation.

 

She said she must be getting back, and I saw her out at the surgery door just as

the luncheon gong went.

 

I should never have suspected Miss Russell of a fondness for detective stories.

It pleases me very much to think of her stepping out of the housekeeper’s room

to rebuke a delinquent housemaid, and then returning to a comfortable perusal of

_The Mystery of the Seventh Death_, or something of the kind.

 

CHAPTER III