ed sharply. In a
back chamber he could hear voices. As he waited idly for the druggist
to appear, Aubrey cast a tolerant eye over the dusty volumes in the
twirling case. There were the usual copies of Harold MacGrath's The
Man on the Box, A Girl of the Limberlost, and The Houseboat on the
Styx. The Divine Fire, much grimed, leaned against Joe Chapple's Heart
Throbs. Those familiar with the Tabard Inn bookcases still to be found
in outlying drug-shops know that the stock has not been "turned" for
many a year. Aubrey was the more surprised, on spinning the the case
round, to find wedged in between two other volumes the empty cover of a
book that had been torn loose from the pages to which it belonged. He
glanced at the lettering on the back. It ran thus:

CARLYLE
----
OLIVER CROMWELL'S
LETTERS
AND
SPEECHES

Obeying a sudden impulse, he slipped the book cover in his overcoat
pocket.

Mr. Weintraub entered the shop, a solid Teutonic person with
discoloured pouches under his eyes and a face that was a potent
argument for prohibition. His manner, however, was that of one anxious
to please. Aubrey indicated the brand of cigarettes he wanted. Having
himself coined the advertising catchword for them--They're mild--but
they satisfy--he felt a certain loyal compulsion always to smoke this
kind. The druggist held out the packet, and Aubrey noticed that his
fingers were stained a deep saffron colour.

"I see you're a cigarette smoker, too," said Aubrey pleasantly, as he
opened the packet and lit one of the paper tubes at a little alcohol
flame burning in a globe of blue glass on the counter.

"Me? I never smoke," said Mr. Weintraub, with a smile which somehow
did not seem to fit his surly face. "I must have steady nerves in my
profession. Apothecaries who smoke make up bad prescriptions."

"Well, how do you get your hands stained that way?"

Mr. Weintraub removed his hands from the counter.

"Chemicals," he grunted. "Prescriptions--all that sort of thing."

"Well," said Aubrey, "smoking's a bad habit. I guess I do too much of
it." He could not resist the impression that someone was listening to
their talk. The doorway at the back of the shop was veiled by a
portiere of beads and thin bamboo sections threaded on strings. He
heard t