It was one of those hot, clear days that Folkestone
sees so much of, every colour incredibly bright and every outline
hard. There was a breeze, of course, but not so much breeze as
sufficed under these conditions to keep me cool and dry. I panted for
mercy.
"I'm not walking fast, am I?" cried Gibberne, and slackened his pace
to a quick march.
"You've been taking some of this stuff," I puffed.
"No," he said. "At the utmost a drop of water that stood in a beaker
from which I had washed out the last traces of the stuff. I took
some last night, you know. But that is ancient history, now."
"And it goes twice?" I said, nearing his doorway in a grateful
perspiration.
"It goes a thousand times, many thousand times!" cried Gibberne, with
a dramatic gesture, flinging open his Early English carved oak gate.
"Phew!" said I, and followed him to the door.
"I don't know how many times it goes," he said, with his latch-key
in his hand.
"And you--"
"It throws all sorts of light on nervous physiology, it kicks the theory
of vision into a perfectly new shape! . . . Heaven knows how many
thousand times. We'll try all that after--The thing is to try the stuff
now.
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