“Except,” said Munting, who had by now mounted on his usual hobbyhorse, “except for the small accident of Life, which is, as you say, a triviality, no doubt, but yet—”
I interrupted him.
“We don’t want to waste Mr. Leader’s time with metaphysics.”
“No,” said Munting, obstinately, “but what I want to know—”
A tremendous clattering of feet in the corridor heralded the throwing open of the door and the irruption of a large number of young men in overalls.
“Oh, Lord,” said Leader, “we’ll have to clear out.” He looked at his watch. “I say, do you mind if I barge off? There’s a demonstration I’ve simply got to attend. Nuisance, but I’m rather behindhand with Dimmock’s subjects. Must mug it up somehow. Awfully pleased to have seen you. Can you find your way out?”
“Just a moment,” said Munting. “You remember the fellow I brought with me last year—Lathom—the artist?”
“Yes, of course—the fellow who was so keen on poisons. Asked such a lot of questions about the right dose, and was so struck with our synthetic stuff. Didn’t seem able to get over the fact that you couldn’t distinguish artificial muscarine from the natural product by chemical analysis. Very intelligent bloke I thought he was—for an artist. I remember him perfectly. Why?”
“Have you seen anything of him since?”