Mr. Mole had been working away patiently and secretly. He had a vast accumulation of notes of facts, symptoms, and tests on the action of Lorchelin and Bulbosin on man and animals; and what was of equal importance, no one had apparently even suspected his secret. No one except Dr. Sones, and from him he kept nothing, requesting only that outside the walls of his laboratory no word of the business was to pass. All Dr. Sones’ efforts to find chemical tests for the poisons which could be absolutely relied upon had been fruitless. Mr. Mole was, however, so satisfied with his physiological tests that he declared himself ready to detect the deadly alkaloids under whatever circumstances they might be administered. Suspecting Mr. Crowe of entertaining a very limited amount of affection for his wife, and knowing how he must estimate the burden of her long-continued illness, he imparted his suspicions to Janet Spriggs, and bade her tell him everything fresh that happened. But there was little to tell. A caution was given to her that should her mistress suddenly die, two or three handkerchiefs were to be dropped as by accident in the remains of the last food of which she had partaken, and especially in anything that might be vomited. These handkerchiefs were then to be given to him. The winter session had commenced about a month; the lecturers had all returned to their posts and patients, and the work at St. Bernard’s was again in full swing. In all the wards you heard little hints, jokes, and anecdotes of the holiday tours and adventures of the doctors—very impressive to the students, very suggestive of the good things in store for them when they had made their mark and could take expensive trips. The poor assistant surgeons and physicians had been compelled to stick to their work all through the vacation, and heard with rather mitigated relish the stories told by their chiefs of Norway, Switzerland, Italy, or Spain.