“I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. To these a heavy wooden apparatus was attached, which could be raised or lowered at pleasure by pullies. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. .
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