Hers was the brain that had conceived the way out.

She had the will, the compelling power to carry the thing through.

He would throw himself on her intuition, her brain, her skill, her daring.
On his desk in the corner, where often until far into the night he had worked on the huge ruled sheets of paper covered with figures of the firm's accounts, he saw two goose-necked vials, one of lemon-colored liquid, the other of raspberry color.

One was of tartaric acid, the other of chloride of lime.

It was an ordinary ink eradicator.