Anything more genial than the garrulous banter of Eugene Thrush, at his best, it was impossible to encounter or incur; he had been, however, for a few minutes at his worst, and it was difficult to see why the pendulum should have swung so suddenly to the other extreme. Mullins went about his business with his usual sleek solemnity. But Thrush was yet another man the moment he was alone. His face was a sunny background for ideas, misgivings, and half-formed plans, one after the other, whirling like clouds across a crimson sky. But the sky was clear whenever Mullins was in the room. And at the breakfast-table there was not a cloud. “To come back to those chemists, and this shop-to-shop canvassing,” resumed Thrush, as Mullins poured out his tea; “how many have you done, and how many have we still to do between us?” Mullins produced a pocket-book that did him credit, and consulted notes as neat. “Rung up when you were out at dinner—seventeen. Kept Cigarettes d’Auvergne—one. That was Thornycroft’s in Shaftesbury Avenue, where I’d just been when I met you down below in the street. In the night I knocked up other eight-and-twenty, all either in the neighbourhood of Trafalgar Square or else on the line of the Park.” “Poor devils! I suppose you urged a pretty bad case?” “A matter of life or death.” “Well?” “Three more kept them, not counting Harbens: one in Knightsbridge, one in New Bond Street, and one a little way down the Brompton Road.” “Much demand in any of those quarters?” “Only in the Brompton Road; a literary gentleman has a box regularly every week, and two in the autumn. Pringle, his name is.” “I know him; so he’s as breathless as his own yarns, is he?” murmured Thrush, to his buttered egg. “But has one of these apothecaries sold a box of d’Auvergnes since Wednesday afternoon?” “Two have,” said Mullins, “but one was to Mr. Pringle.” Thrush levelled inquiring spectacles. “How did you worm that out, Mullins?” “By changing my tune a bit, sir. I started asking if they knew anybody who could recommend the cigarettes from personal experience, as we were only trying them on hearsay.” “Very smart of you, Mullins! And one wheezy novelist is the only consumer?” “That’s right, sir, but the man in Knights-bridge sold a box on Thursday to a doctor.” “Did you get the name?” “Bone-Gardner, I think it was a Dr. Otto Bone-Gardner.” “Baumgartner, I expect you mean!” cried Thrush, straightening a wry face to spell the name. “I’ve heard of an Otto Baumgartner, though I can’t say when or where. What’s his address?” “He couldn’t tell me, sir; or else he wouldn’t. Suppose he thought I’d be turning the doctor out next. Old customer, I understood he was.” “For d’Auvergne Cigarettes?” “I didn’t inquire.”