Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.
"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills."
"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this."
"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."
The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine bottles with downcast eyes.
"I'm afraid—ahem—really, my memory is so bad," he faltered, childishly; "well, I scarcely—ahem—but I think Monsieur Judas will be able to tell you all about it. I have the—ahem—I have the fullest confidence in Monsieur Judas."
"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.
"Eight pilules," he said, counting them.
"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but, of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been more."
"De monsieur weeth de pilules did he geeve dem to monsieur?"