"Lily has gone to see an aunt of hers over at Battersea," the old man explained. "But she'll be home at five. She's got her holidays now, and, poor girl, she's been sadly disappointed. She expected to go down to her married sister at Huntingdon, but couldn't go because her sister's laid up with rheumatic fever. So she has to stay at home this year. And this place isn't much of a change for her." I glanced around at the dark, close little den, and at the strong-smelling shop beyond, and was fain to admit that he spoke the truth. "I suppose your friend, Mr. Cleugh, is busy as usual with his murders and his horrors?" he remarked, smiling. "He's a wonderful acute fellow. I always read the paper every day, and am generally interested in the results of the inquiries by the _Comet_ man. Half London reads his interviews and latest details." "Yes," I answered. "He's kept hard at work always. There seems to be a never-ceasing string of sensations nowadays. As soon as one mystery is elucidated another springs up somewhere else." "Ah," he answered, his dark eyes gazing at me through his heavy-rimmed glasses, "it was always so. Never a day goes past without a mystery of some sort or another." "I suppose," I said, "if the truth were told, more people are poisoned in London than ever the police or the public imagine." I knew that all herbalists were versed in toxicology more or less, and had a vague idea that I might learn something from him. "Of course," he answered, "there are several poisons, the results of which bear such strong resemblance to symptoms of disease, that doctors are very frequently misled, and the verdict is `Death from natural causes.' In dozens of cases every year the post-mortem proves disease, and thus the poisoner escapes." "What causes you to think this?" I inquired eagerly, recollections of the tragedy in Kensington vividly in my mind. "Well," he said, "I only make that allegation because every herbalist in London sells poisons in smaller or greater quantity. If he's an unwise man, he asks no questions.--If he's wise, he makes the usual inquiry." "And then?" "Well," the old man croaked with his small eyes twinkling in the semi-darkness, "the customer generally jays pretty dearly for the article." "Which means that an entry is made in the poison-register which is not altogether the truth--eh?" He smiled and nodded. "When poisons are sold at a high price," the old herbalist answered, "the vendor has no desire to know for what purpose the drug is to be used. It is generally supposed that it is to kill vermin--you understand." "And human beings are more often the victims?" I hazarded. He raised his grey, shaggy brows with an expression of affected ignorance, answering-- "Who can tell? The herbs or drugs are sold unlabelled, and wrapped in blank paper. As far as the herbalist is concerned, his liability is at an end, just as a cutler sells razors, or a gun-maker revolvers."