It seemed to be a pamphlet. Giving a glance at one of the open ends, Mr. Farmiloe saw handwriting within, and his hostility to the woman found vent in a sharp remark.
'There's a written communication in this. It will be letter rate.'
The lady eyed him with terrible scorn.
'You will oblige me by minding your own business. Your remark is the merest impertinence. That packet consists of MS., and will, therefore, go at book rate. Be so good as to weigh it at once.'
Mr. Farmiloe lost all control of himself, and well-nigh screamed.
'No, madam, I will not weigh it. And let me inform you, as you are so ignorant, that to weigh packets is not part of my duty. I do it merely to oblige civil persons, and you, madam, are not one of them.'
The lady instantly turned and withdrew.
'Damn the post-office!' yelled Mr. Farmiloe, alone with his errand-boy, and shaking his fist in the air. 'This very day I write to give it up. I say—damn the post-office.'
He returned to his dispensing, completed it, wrapped up the bottle in the customary manner, and despatched the boy to the house.
Five minutes later a thought flashed through his mind which put him in a cold sweat. He happened to glance along the shelf from which he had taken the bottle containing the last ingredient of the mixture, and it struck him, with all the force of a horrible doubt, that he had made a mistake. In the irate confusion of his thoughts, he had done the dispensing almost mechanically. The bottle he ought to have taken down was that, but had he not actually poured from that other? Of poisoning there was no fear, but, if indeed he had made a slip, the result would be a very extraordinary mixture; so surprising, in fact, that the patient would be sure to speak to Dr. Bunker about it. Good heavens! He felt sure he had made the mistake.