"Listen to me, sir. Some ten years ago, there came to you a man on a secret business. He had an old musty bit of parchment, on which were written some words, hardly legible, in an antique hand,--an old deed, it might have been,--some family document, and here and there the letters were faded away. But this man had spent his life over it, and he had made out the meaning, and he interpreted it to you, and left it with you, only there was one gap,--one torn or obliterated place. Well, sir,--and he bade you, with your poor little skill at the mortar, and for a certain sum,--ample repayment for such a service,--to manufacture this medicine,--this cordial. It was an affair of months. And just when you thought it finished, the man came again, and stood over your cursed beverage, and shook a powder, or dropped a lump into it, or put in some ingredient, in which was all the hidden virtue,--or, at least, it drew out all the hidden virtue of the mean and common herbs, and married them into a wondrous efficacy. This done, the man bade you do certain other things with the potation, and went away"--the Colonel hesitated a moment--"and never came back again." "Surely, Colonel, you are correct," said the apothecary; much startled, however, at the Colonel's showing himself so well acquainted with an incident which he had supposed a secret with himself alone. Yet he had a little reluctance in owning it, although he did not exactly understand why, since the Colonel had, apparently, no rightful claim to it, at all events. "That medicine, that receipt," continued his visitor, "is my hereditary property, and I challenge you, on your peril, to give it up." "But what if the original owner should call upon me for it," objected Dr. Dolliver. "I'll warrant you against that," said the Colonel; and the apothecary thought there was something ghastly in his look and tone. "Why, 't is ten year, you old fool; and do you think a man with a treasure like that in his possession would have waited so long?" "Seven years it was ago," said the apothecary. "Septem annis passatis: so says the Latin." "Curse your Latin," answers the Colonel. "Produce the stuff. You have been violating the first rule of your trade,--taking your own drugs,--your own, in one sense; mine by the right of three hundred years. Bring it forth, I say!"