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Any other man would have taken down the two bottles in question, and have examined the mouths of them for traces of moisture. Mr. Farmiloe, a victim of destiny, could do nothing so reasonable. Heedless of the fact that his shop remained unguarded, he seized his hat and rushed after the errand-boy. If he could only have a sniff at the mixture it would either confirm his fear or set his mind at rest. He tore along the road–and was too late. The boy met him, having just completed his errand.

With a wild curse he sped to the house, he rushed to the tradesman’s door. The medicine just delivered! He must examine it–he feared there was a mistake–an extraordinary oversight.

The bottle had not yet been upstairs. Mr. Farmiloe tore off the wrapper, wrenched out the cork, sniffed–and smiled feebly.

‘Thank you. I’m glad to find there was no mistake. I’ll take it back, and have it wrapped up again, and send it immediately–immediately. And, by the bye’–he fumbled in his pocket for half-a-crown, still smiling like a detected culprit–‘I’m sure you won’t mention this little affair. A new assistant of mine–stupid fellow–I am going to get rid of him at once. Thank you, thank you.’

Notwithstanding that half-crown the incident was, of course, talked of through the house before a quarter of an hour had elapsed. Next day it was the gossip of the suburbs; and the day after the city itself heard the story. People were alarmed and scandalised. Why, such a chemist was a public danger! One lady declared that he ought at once to be ‘struck off the roll!’

And so in a sense he was. Another month and the flowery, bowery little suburb knew him no more. He hid himself in a great town, living on the wreck of his fortune whilst he sought a place as an assistant. A leaky pair of boots and a bad east wind found the vulnerable spot of his constitution. After all, there was just enough money left to bury him.