"Oh, undoubtedly, sir! Quite as much so as a physician."
"You are aware also that mistakes sometimes occur in making up prescriptions, or in using them afterwards?"
"Not by me, I should hope. I keep a record of every dangerous ingredient which goes out of my hands."
"Ah!" Philip exclaimed. Then he paused, uncertain how much to confide to Mr. Linthicum's discretion. But, on mentioning his name and residence, he found that both himself and Mr. Hopeton were known—and favorably, it seemed—to the apothecary. He knew the class of men to which the latter belonged,—prim, fussy, harmlessly vain persons, yet who take as good care of their consciences as of their cravats and shirt-bosoms. He produced the paper without further delay.
"That was bought here, certainly," said Mr. Linthicum. "The word 'Arsenic' is written in my hand. The date when, and the person by whom it was purchased, must be in my register. Will you go over it with me?"
He took a volume from a drawer, and beginning at the last entry, they went slowly backward over the names, the apothecary saying: "This is confidential: I rely upon your seeing without remembering."
They had not gone back more than two or three weeks before Philip came upon a name that made his heart stand still. There was a record in a single line:—
"Miss Henderson. Arsenic."
He waited a few seconds, until he felt sure of his voice. Then he asked: "Do you happen to know Miss Henderson?"
"Not at all! A perfect stranger."