Dr. Sones had bought his practice of an aged surgeon who had occupied the house over fifty years. He often showed his friends a curious collection of old drugs and medicines that were in actual use in pharmacy in the time of his predecessor. There was a bottle labelled “Moss off a dead man’s skull,” but it was not known how or for what complaint it was administered. There was another horrible mess called “Oil of earth-worms,” besides “Oil of bricks,” and “Powdered tapeworms,” actually administered for those parasites on the _similia similibus_ principle. “Cobwebs,” “Crabs’ eyes,” and “Crabs’ claws,” were at that time regularly used in medicine, the two latter being merely chalk, sold under those names. If one were disposed to laugh at the therapeutic folly of the past generation of doctors, Sones would remind you that quite as absurd and disgusting things have been “strongly recommended by the faculty” in the present day. A prominent medical journal only recently had several articles on the virtues of an “Essence of Cockroaches” of all loathsome remedies! What is there that has not at one time been either a deity or a drug? One of these old bottles contained a preparation from some Russian fungi, which he had not hitherto noticed, and in that he found an important clue to his tests. CHAPTER XXXVI. MR. CROWE AT GRANADA. He that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun, Himself is his own dungeon. —_Milton._ Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? —_Wordsworth._ One lovely autumn evening, just five years after Elsworth went to Spain, two Englishmen were chatting over their wine in the dining-room of the Hotel de los Siete Suelos in the grounds of the Alhambra at Granada, under the red towers of that fairy palace of the Moors. The elder was an exceedingly handsome man of fifty or thereabouts, of commanding presence, a fine, open, honest, intelligent countenance, a voice all suavity and of soothing modulation and persuasive power, he looked every inch the sort of person he was—a fashionable West-End physician, whose _clientèle_ was mostly composed of ladies. Dr. Garnett Graves, lecturer on gynæcology at St. Bernard’s Hospital, was taking his holiday in Spain this year. His companion was his colleague at the same place—Mr. Malthus Crowe. They were taking their long vacation trip together, and had remained a few days longer at Granada than they had originally intended, because news had reached them that two ladies of their acquaintance were on their way home to England and would take Granada _en route_. It was of these ladies, expected to arrive by the evening train from Malaga, that these gentlemen were speaking. The talk was of money, and the prospects of the heiress.