"Terms are always plainly stated," said Nathaniel; "and patrons are left to use their own judgment." "Well?" asked Mr. Sparhawk of Stroude. "Can I get the money to-day?" asked the merchant, his trembling hand still fumbling with the neck-cloth. "To-day, without fail?" "It will be at your office in one hour," said Amos Bulfinch, soothingly. "I will send for it at once." Under his father's directions, Nathaniel sat down at his table and made out the note; when it was ready, it was passed over to Stroude, who read and buttoned it up in his breast pocket. "My son, Rehoboam, will pay the money over to you," said the leech; "and I would ask, Mr. Stroude, that you have the necessary signatures ready affixed, to avoid delay." Stroude stumbled a little as he went down the stairs; and the perky little Mr. Sparhawk carried a wrinkle of interrogation between his eyes as he went with him. XIII In the window at Christopher Dent's, among the gray dried herbs, the crooked, moisture-seeking roots, the barks and flowers, there had stood for a long time a small board upon which had been carefully lettered the information that upon the second floor desirable lodgings were to be had. "Clean and roomy," Christopher described them in his talk. "And not of too great cost. The furnishings are not sumptuous, but are adequate to a modest taste; and any one inclined to occupy the premises must be so adjusted as to see no harm in occasional fumes resulting from the distilling, simmering, fermenting, or otherwise compounding of curative drugs, medicines, or chemicals. Any one of such a habit of mind will find themselves reasonably well bestowed." The board, however, had now disappeared from the window; this hinted at the second floor's being occupied; and a glance upward carried the hint to the border of certainty. The shutters were all open; and lights were seen behind trim white curtains. Water Street was quiet of an evening; the drays had ceased to trundle over the stones; porters, clerks, and merchants, who had all day been matching themselves against the mounds of goods that grew before the warehouses, the bills and figures and entries that crowded the desks of the counting-rooms, and the wits and wants of buyers, sellers, and agents, had all melted from view, into their homes, or into the bars or eating-rooms of favorite taverns. Christopher Dent sat in his back room, his spectacles upon his nose, and a big book in Latin text upon his knee. A cheery fire crackled in the stove; two candles burned upon the table; and a number of other books, each as big as the one Christopher held, lay beside them. Outside the yellow flare lurked the retorts, the rows of bottles and jars full of pent-up possibilities, still and waiting. Tom Horn sat upon a bench near the stove; he rubbed his knees in the warmth, as the little apothecary looked at him over the edge of his spectacles.