Philip placed the sandwich next to Mr. Peters. The old man grabbed it and bit into it without taking his eyes off the business section of the paper. Then it happened…

Mr. Peters’ chewing slowed. And slowed. Finally his masticating jaws stopped. He swallowed. He took another bite and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully. He put the newspaper down and gripped the sandwich in both liver-spotted hands, trying to restrain himself in front of the help, obviously wanting to prolong the experience.

Finished, he turned to Philip with glazed eyes.

“That will be all,” he said, swallowing.
__

“Well?” Cynthia demanded.

Philip picked up the stoppered vial and turned it so that he was looking at the label: a very famous actor with a famous pair of blue eyes. The actor smiled a well-known smile, his head seeming to float over a demi-wreath of herbs and spices.

“Oh,” Philip said at last, putting down the salad dressing, “I merely thought the bastard should have one halfway-decent sandwich before he died.”