Paul Morton bought this book, and when he reached home he locked it up securely in a drawer accessible only to himself.
We have now brought up the story to the point where the first chapter commences.
The poison which he sought in the small shop on the Bowery was the same whose effects he had seen described in the volume he had purchased in Nassau Street. He had an object in going to an obscure shop, as he would be less likely to be known, and such a purchase would be very apt to attract notice. But it was only by chance that he succeeded. In most shops of such humble pretensions such an article would not be found, but it so happened that some had been ordered by a chemist a year before, and the druggist, thinking it possible he might have a call for it, had ordered some to keep in his stock.
When Paul Morton reached home, he went up to his friend's chamber.
Ralph Raymond was lying stretched out upon the bed, looking quite sick; but not so sick as at times during his illness.
"How do you feel, Ralph?" said his false friend, bending over him.
"I am feeling more comfortable to-day, Paul," he said.
"Perhaps you will recover yet."
"No, I have no expectation of that; but I may be spared longer than I supposed possible."
"I certainly hope so," said Paul Morton; but there was a false ring in his voice, though the sick man, who had no doubt of his sincere friendship, was far enough from detecting this.