"Do you know this writing?" said Doctor Roland to the druggist, pointing to the label on the box. "Yes," answered the druggist; "that was written by one of my assistants." "Can we see him for a few moments?" "I don't know where he is to be found. He is a worthless fellow, and has gone to the devil this last few weeks with a rapidity that is something startling." "When did he leave?" "Well, he got drunk and stayed drunk during the holidays, and I had to discharge him. He was a very valuable man when he was sober; but he began to be so erratic in his habits that I was afraid he would make a ghastly mistake some time, so I discharged him before it was too late?" "Are you sure you discharged him before it was too late." The druggist looked at the doctor, whom he knew well, and said, "I never heard of any mistake, if he did make it." "You keep a book, of course, of all the prescriptions sent out?" "Certainly." "May we look at that book?" "I shall be very glad to show it to you. What month or week?" "I want to see what time you sent this box of morphia to me." "You don't know about what time it was, do you? "Yes; it must have been about two weeks before Christmas." The chemist looked over the pages of the book, and finally said, "Here it is." "Will you let me look at that page?" "Certainly." The doctor ran his finger down the column, and came to an entry written in the same hand. "Look here," he said to Stratton, "thirty grains of quinine sent to William Brenton, and next to it thirty grains of morphia sent to Stephen