During their intimate conversations--before Lothian's three weeks in London with Rita Wallace, while his wife was at Nice, Dr. Morton Sims had explained many things to him. The great man had been pleased to find in a patient, in an artist also, the capability of appreciating scientific truth and being interested in the methods by which it was sought. Lothian knew therefore, that Morton Sims was patiently following and extending the experiments of Professor Fraenkel at his laboratory in Halle, varying the investigation of Deléarde and carrying it much farther. Morton Sims was introducing alcohol into rabbits and guinea pigs, sub-cutaneously or into the stomach direct, exhibiting the alcohol in well-diluted forms and over long periods. He was then inoculating these alcoholised subjects, and subjects which had not been alcoholised, with the bacilli of consumption--tubercle bacilli--and diphtheria toxin--the poison produced by the diphtheria bacillus. He was endeavouring to obtain indisputable evidence of increased susceptibility to infection in the animal body under alcoholic influences. Of all this, Lothian was thoroughly aware. He stood now--if indeed it _was_ Gilbert Lothian the poet who stood there--in front of an open cupboard; the cupboard he had opened by secrecy and fraud. Upon those shelves, as he well knew, organic poisons of immeasurable potency were resting. In those half-dozen squat phials of glass, surrounded with felt and with curious stoppers, an immense Death was lurking. All the quick-firing guns of the navies of the world were not so powerful as one of these little glass receptacles. The breath came thick and fast from the intruder. It went up in clouds from his heated body; vapourised into steam which looked yellow in the candlelight. After a minute he drew near to the cupboard. A trembling, exploring finger pushed among the phials. It isolated one. Upon a label pasted on the glass, were two words in Greek characters, "[Greek: diphth. toxin.]" Here, in this vessel of gelatinous liquid, lurked the destroying army of diphtheria bacilli, millions strong. The man held up the candle and its light fell full upon the neat cursive Greek, so plain for him to read. He stared at it with focussed eyes. His head was pushed forward a little and oscillated slowly from side to side. The sweat ran down it and fell with little splashes upon the floor. Then his hand began to tremble and the light flickered and danced in the recesses of the cupboard. He turned away, shaking, and set the candle end upon the table. It swayed, toppled over, flared for a moment and went out. But he could not wait to light it again. His attendant devil was straying, he must be called back . . . to help. Lothian plunged his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a flat flask of silver. It was full of undiluted whiskey. He took a long steady pull, and the fire went through him instantly.