“Have you any mushrooms?”
“No, sir. Mushrooms not in season, sir.”
“Of course not. How stupid of me!”
Mr. Crowe, under the glare of his enemy’s cruel eye, visibly winced; his face paled, and Ringrose could see that the arrow had gone home. The physiologist beckoned to a waiter, gave his number, paid his bill to the boy who came round for the money, picked up his little brown-paper parcels, and went off.
Mr. Ringrose felt sure that one murderer had lunched that day in decent company.
Now Mr. Mole had long been working to supplant his chief. He aimed at nothing less than the chair of physiology.
In a very short time things became so unpleasant for Mr. Crowe, that he was fain to resign his appointment as surgeon to the hospital, though for the present he retained his lectureship at the medical school.
CHAPTER XLII.
THE BACILLUS OF LOVE.
Where both deliberate the love is slight.