“But it is possible that I may have a little,” said Tom, kindly. “Oh, Mr. Bristow!” gasped the chemist, and then could say no more. “Supposing—merely supposing, you know,” said Tom, “that I were to get your eldest boy into the Downham Foundation School, and were, in addition, to put a hundred-pound note into your hands with which to pay off your arrears of rent, you would be willing to do a trifling service for me in return?” “I should be the most ungrateful wretch in the world were I to refuse to do so,” replied the chemist, earnestly. “Then listen,” said Tom. “You are summoned to serve as one of the jury in the great murder case to-morrow.” Mr. Sprague nodded. “You will serve, as a matter of course,” continued Tom. “I shall be in the court, and in such a position that you can see me without difficulty. As soon as the clock strikes three, you will look at me, and you will keep on looking at me every two or three minutes, waiting for a signal from me. Perhaps it will not be requisite for me to give the signal at all—in that case I shall not need your services; but whether they are needed or no, your remuneration will in every respect be the same.” “And what is the signal, Mr. Bristow, for which I am to look out?” “The scratching, with my little finger—thus—of the left-hand side of my nose.” “And what am I to do when I see the signal?” “You are to pretend that you are taken suddenly ill, and you are to keep up that pretence long enough to render it impossible for the trial to be finished on Monday—long enough, in fact, to make its postponement to Tuesday morning an inevitable necessity.” “I understand, sir. You want the trial to extend into the second day; instead of being finished, as it might be, on the first?” “That is exactly what I want. Can you counterfeit a sudden attack of illness, so as to give it an air of reality?” “I ought to be able to do so, sir. I see plenty of the symptoms every day of my life.” “They will send for a doctor to examine you, you know.” “I suppose so, sir. But my plan will be this: not merely to pretend to be ill, but to be ill in reality. To swallow something, in fact—say a pill concocted by myself—which will really make me very sick and ill for two or three hours, without doing me any permanent injury.” “Not a bad idea by any means. But you understand that you are to take no action whatever in the matter until you see my signal.” “I understand that clearly.” After a little more conversation, Tom went, carrying with him in his waistcoat pocket a tiny phial, filled with some dark-coloured fluid which the chemist had mixed expressly for him. On the point of leaving, Tom produced three or four rustling pieces of paper. “Here are thirty pounds on account, Mr. Sprague,” said he. “I think we understand one another, eh?”