As the latter, however, the chemist contentedly took it.
"It'll cost less," he observed; "and I guess it'll do the work just as well."
To Hal it seemed a somewhat cavalier method of altering a medical formula. But his mind, accustomed to easy acceptance of the business which so luxuriously supplied his wants, passed the matter over lightly.
"First-rate man, Dixon," remarked Dr. Surtaine as they passed along. "College-bred, and all that. Boozes, though. I only pay him twenty-five a week, and he's mighty glad to get it."
On the way back to the offices, they traversed the checking and accounting rooms, the agency department, the great rows of desks whereat the shipping and mailing were looked after, and at length stopped before the door of a small office occupied by a dozen women. One of these, a full-bosomed, slender, warm-skinned girl with a wealth of deep-hued, rippling red hair crowning her small, well-poised head, rose and came to speak to Dr. Surtaine.
"Did you get the message I sent you about Letter Number Seven?" she asked.
"Hello, Milly," greeted the presiding genius, pleasantly. "Just what was that about Number Seven?"
"It isn't getting results."
"No? Let's see it." Dr. Surtaine was as interested in this as he had been casual about the drug alteration.
"I don't think it's personal enough," pursued the girl, handing him a sheet of imitation typewriter print.