Dr. John Kearns, Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel. “If you leave tonight, you might have just enough time,” I went on. “He is a close friend of the doctor’s, a doctor himself as a matter of fact, Warthrop’s spiritual twin and polar opposite, a man who has seen to the bottom of the well, if you follow my meaning. He will give you the antidote if you give him the name: tipota. Do not forget.” I stepped back, scooping up the derringer from the nightstand. And his mouth came open, and he said, “You’re mad.” “To the contrary,” I answered. “I am the sanest person alive.”
