When this was brought, he shut the door again. Some minutes later he came out and called the sergeant. “Here’s your Navy Cut, sergeant. I’m sorry I can’t give you the tins.” The sergeant, completely at a loss to understand these proceedings, thanked him in a dazed fashion and began to sweep the tobacco from the table into his pouch. “How far is it to Whistlefield?” Sir Clinton inquired. On learning the distance he borrowed a bicycle from one of the constables. “Send up to Whistlefield for it to-morrow—or in an hour, if you like. I’ll leave word that you’re to get it.” And with that the Chief Constable mounted the machine and rode off. The sergeant watched him out of sight and then returned into the police-station. He entered the room which Sir Clinton had been using and looked at the debris of the unknown experiment. “He’s had something clipped in that vice, I suppose. And there’s a drill; I wonder where he picked that up. And he’s got some pinky stuff in that glass of water, too. And he takes away the tins and he leaves the tobacco to me. This is a rum kind of Chief Constable to have, for sure. What’s he getting at?” CHAPTER VII. The Pot of Curare After leaving the Chief Constable in the village, Wendover took the road to Whistlefield. Sir Clinton’s obvious anxiety had impressed him; and he drove fast. He was not altogether pleased at having Ardsley thrust upon him as a companion; for he disliked the toxicologist. Whenever he saw Ardsley’s grim, clean-shaven face he had a vision of tortured animals, and a spasm of repugnance attacked him. His knowledge of the Vivisection Act was negligible, and his imagination pictured helpless beasts strapped to tables and writhing under the knife of the vivisector. For politeness’ sake, he forced himself to make conversation. “It’s to be hoped we can manage this for Driffield without a hitch,” he said. “He seems to be afraid of leaving the stuff lying loose. You can find it all right, I suppose?” “I can go straight to the place where it used to be kept,” Ardsley assured him coldly, paying no attention to the speculative part of Wendover’s speech. He seemed to feel no desire to continue the conversation; and Wendover felt that he had suffered a snub. “Surly devil!” he commented inwardly. “He won’t even meet one half-way.” He had no time to brood over the matter, however, for very soon they reached Whistlefield. “You’d better do the talking,” Ardsley advised, as they got out of the car and approached the door of the house. Wendover nodded in agreement and rang the bell. When the maid appeared he asked if Ernest Shandon was disengaged. The maid seemed doubtful. “He’s in the study, sir, and he left word that he wasn’t to be disturbed.” Wendover thought of asking for the secretary; but it struck him that since they had come to commandeer the drug, it would be best to see one of the family. After all, it was private property, even if it was dangerous stuff. “Is Mr. Hawkhurst at home?”