“It is too little money,” replied the dying man. “Make it twelve hundred.”
Von Holzen turned away to the window again thoughtfully. A silence seemed to have fallen over the busy streets, to fill the untidy room. The angel of death, not for the first time, found himself in company with the greed of men.
“I will do that,” said Von Holzen at length, “as you are dying.”
“Have you the money with you?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” said the dying man, regretfully. It was only natural, perhaps, that he was sorry that he had not asked more. “Sit down,” he said, “and write.”
Von Holzen did as he was bidden. He had also a pocket-book and pencil in readiness. Slowly, as if drawing from the depths of a long-stored memory, the dying man dictated a prescription in a mixture of dog-Latin and Dutch, which his hearer seemed to understand readily enough. The money, in dull-coloured notes, lay on the table before the writer. The prescription was a long one, covering many pages of the note-book, and the particulars as to preparation and temperature of the various liquid ingredients filled up another two pages.
“There,” said the dying man at length, “I have treated you fairly. I have told you all I know. Give me the money.”
Von Holzen crossed the room and placed the notes within the yellow fingers, which closed over them.
“Ah,” said the recipient, “I have had more than that in my hand. I was rich once, and I spent it all in Amsterdam. Now read over your writing. I will treat you fairly.”