"Pharmacia? Hé?"
"Yes; the other one."
"Caccia? All right, I go at Caccia."
He turned round and drove to another chemist's, this time in a farther Piazza. It took about four minutes. Chesney got out and entered the shop. The keen, medicinal smell of the place brought the past in a gust upon him. He took the old prescription again from his pocketbook. It was stamped with the names of various chemists where it had been filled before.
"I am suffering severely with sciatica," he said, in a casual tone, to the clerk who took the prescription from him. "I need sleep very badly. I only want enough morphia for two doses—well, perhaps three would be better, as the pain might not yield easily."
The clerk said: "Si, Signore," and went to consult a senior member of the firm. He returned and said respectfully:
"I am sorry, Signore. We do not keep Sulfato di Morphia in this form."
Chesney flushed and paled rapidly as he had done in the cab outside.
"Do you mean you refuse to sell me even one or two doses?" he asked haughtily.
The clerk looked admiringly and a little timidly at his immense, angry customer.