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Updated: May 6, 2025
Garrick had stooped down and picked up both the handkerchief with its crushed bits of the kelene tube and near it a shattered glass hypodermic. "Oh, I got thinking about things, up there at Mead's," blurted out Warrington, "and I couldn't stand it. I should have gone crazy. While the doctor was out I managed to slip away and take a train to the city. I knew this address from the letter.
"I could have jabbed a dozen needles into you and you would never have known it," asserted Garrick with a quiet smile playing over his face. "What is the stuff?" I asked, quite taken aback. "Kelene ethyl chloride. Whiff! and you are off almost in a second. It is an anaesthetic of nearly unbelievable volatility.
It is derived from henbane, among ether things, and is a rapid, energetic alkaloid, more rapid than chloral and morphine. And, preceded by a whiff of kelene, not even the sensations I have described are remembered." I could only stare at the outfit before me, speechless. "In Paris, where I got this," continued Garrick, "they call these people who use it, 'endormeurs' sleepmakers.
The fraction of time is long enough. Then comes the jab with the real needle perhaps another whiff of kelene to give the injection a chance.
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