“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s three, six-minute eggs. Not six, three-minute eggs.” He pushed the silver tray away. “Who in their right might would eat six, three-minute eggs? They wouldn’t even be bloody cooked.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.” She gathered up the tray in shaking hands. “The cook…”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, girl. Just get me my breakfast.”
With a snap he flipped open the newspaper and started reading the business section, as she walked backwards out of the room.
“He wouldn’t eat them,” she said in a low voice to her husband, the cook. “He wants three six-minute eggs, but if you cook them that long will it affect the cyanide in the water?”
He shrugged and tipped some more of the poison into the boiling water.
“Only one way to find out.”