"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we must try and prevent. The undertaker--not coffins man, Monsieur Judas, that is not--ahem--correct Anglo-Saxon--is the last, the very last resource of a sick man. Prevention--ahem--in the person of ourselves is better than--ahem--dear me--I don't think the remark is app--ahem--applicable." At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr. Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner. "Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr. Octavius Fanks. "Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name--ahem--my name, sir, is in front of the--the shop, sir." "So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name." "De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion. Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man. "Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?" "Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing his own tongue. His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that he was on his guard against this clever--too clever Englishman. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas flashed rapidly through their respective minds. The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a detective) of Monsieur Judas: "This man has a past, and is always on his guard." The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature: "This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful." There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part of these two men who now met for the first time, except that instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures antipathetic to one another. Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to his customer in a business fashion: "What can I do for you, sir?" Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk. "I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills." "Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this." "They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."