"I suppose," said Roland, "you thought for a moment I was trying to
commit suicide. I think, Mr. Stratton, you will have a better opinion of
me by-and-by. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you imagined I induced
you to come in here to get you into a trap."
"You are perfectly correct," said Stratton; "and I may say, although
that was my belief, I was not in the least afraid of you, for I had you
covered all the time."
"Well," remarked Roland, carelessly, "I don't want to interfere with
your business at all, but I wish you wouldn't cover me quite so much;
that revolver of yours might go off."
"Do you mean to say," said Stratton, "that there is nothing but quinine
in those capsules?"
"I'll tell you in a moment," as he opened them one by one. "No, there is
nothing but quinine here. Thirty grains put up in five-grain capsules."
George Stratton's eyes began to open. Then he slowly rose, and looked
with horrified face at the doctor.
"My God!" he cried; "who got the thirty grains of morphia?"
"What do you mean?" asked the doctor.
"Mean? Why, don't you see it? It is a chemist's mistake. Thirty grains
of quinine have been sent you. Thirty grains of morphia have been sent
to somebody else. Was it to William Brenton?"
"By Jove!" said the doctor, "there's something in that. Say, let us go
to the drug store."
The two went out together, and walked to the drug store on the corner of
Blank Street and Nemo Avenue.
"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
Roland. I see how it was. Those prescriptions were mixed up. My package
went to poor Brenton."
The druggist turned pale.
"I hope," he said, "nothing public will come of this."
"My dear sir," said Roland, "something public will _have_ to come of
it. You will oblige me by ringing up the central police station, as this
book must be given in charge of the authorities."
"Look here," put in Stratton, his newspaper instinct coming uppermost,
"I want to get this thing exclusively for the _Argus_."
"Oh, I guess there will be no trouble about that. Nothing will be made
public until to-morrow, and you can telegraph to-night if we find the
box of capsules in Brenton's residence. We must take an officer with us
for that purpose, but you can caution or bribe him to keep quiet until
to-morrow."
When the three went to William Brenton's residence they began a search
of the room in which Brenton had died, but nothing was found. In the
closet of the room hung the clothes of Brenton, and going through them
Stratton found in the vest pocket of one of the suits a small box
containing what was described as five-grain capsules of sulphate of
quinine. The doctor tore one of these capsules apart, so as to see what
was in it. Without a moment's hesitation he said--
"There you are! That is the morphia. There were six capsules in this
box, and one of them is missing. William Brenton poisoned himself!
Feeling ill, he doubtless took what he thought was a dose of quinine.
Many men indulge in what we call the quinine habit. It is getting to be
a mild form of tippling. Brenton committed unconscious suicide!"
[Illustration]