"I thought," said Anthony, "it would be best to come away quietly from Magruder's and say nothing. As it is, the porters or clerks will find the body in good time; then my name will be in no way connected with the matter, and that, I think, will be of service to me."
The little apothecary considered a moment, and then gravely nodded.
"Yes," said he, "you are right. You are quite right. The city will be in a state over this; the officers will be much exercised. If you'd made the thing known, they'd have asked questions of you. To keep yourself from any touch with this villainy you would have given guarded answers. The officers are not without perception; they would have noted your hesitancy and would, like as not, have insisted upon a clearer statement. And that," with a look of great knowingness, "you'd probably not be inclined to give just now. Yes, you are quite right to say nothing; the body will be found in due course, as you say, and so no harm will be done."
A man came into the outer shop, and the apothecary went out to him.
"I want," said the man, in a voice that Anthony seemed to recognize, "a few pennyworth of Spanish flies, and pitch enough to make a plaster of some size."
"For man or beast," asked Christopher dubiously.
"For a horse—a gelding with a hurt shoulder."
"I would not advise the pitch," said the apothecary; "when cold, it grows hard, and will dull the virtue of even cantharides."
"But it will stick," maintained the other, "and no kicking or rubbing will get it off. And this horse is the very devil for kicking and stumbling and knocking against things."
"A small quantity of Venice turpentine," said Christopher, "and a little yellow wax—"