My heart was thumping. To my excited imagination it seemed to shake the table as I took Sir James’s place before the polariscope.
“We’ll start,” said Waters, “with the analyser parallel to the polariser. Right you are. You see your beam of light? Now here’s the adjustment. Turn it yourself.”
I turned it, and the light vanished.
“Hold on to it,” said Waters, cheerfully, “so that you can be sure there’s no hanky-panky. I’m putting the muscarine solution in again. Now then!”
As he slipped the glass cylinder into place the circle of light returned.
“Yes,” I said, “I see it.”
“Convincing demonstration of a miracle,” said Waters, “and the lopsidedness of things in general. That’s all right, then. Now we’ll have a look at the stuff that killed Harrison. No. Respect for our governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters. We’ll let Sir James have a go first.”
Sir James, with a shrug, took my place at the instrument. Waters put his hand on my arm.
With maddening deliberation, the analyst set the first cylinder carefully on one side and took up the other. My mouth was dry as I watched him. He put the cylinder into the polariscope and looked. There was a pause. Then a grunt. Then his hand came up, feeling for the adjustment. There was another pause and an exclamation of impatience. Then his eyes was jerked back from the eyepiece and his head peered round to examine the exterior of the instrument. Waters’ grip on my arm became painful in its tightness. Sir James’s hand came round again, feeling, this time, for the cylinder. He took it out, held it up, looked at it and replaced it with very great care. He looked again, and there was a long silence.