"When I do I'll come to you for morphia pills," said Octavius, laughing: "not the sort in that box, though. I don't want to die yet."
"I don't believe in morphia pills," remarked Japix, rising to accompany his guest to the door. "I never prescribe them. Oh, yes, by the way, I did prescribe some for a Mr. Axton."
Octavius, who was going out of the door, turned suddenly round with a cry of horror.
"Roger Axton!"
"Yes; do you know him? Why, good gracious, what's the matter?"
For Octavius Fanks, trembling in every limb, had sunk into a chair near the door.
"Are you ill? Are you ill?" roared the Doctor, anxiously. "Here, let me get you some brandy."
"No, no!" said Fanks, recovering himself with a great effort, though his face was as pale as death. "I'm all right. I—I used to know Roger Axton, and the name startled me."
"Unpleasant associations," growled Japix, rubbing his large head in a vexed manner. "I hope not—dear, dear—I trust not. I liked the young fellow. A good lad—a very good lad."
Fanks at once hastened to dispel the Doctor's distrust.