But this is the least of the herbalist’s abilities. It is, in fact, merely the outward sign of an inward and spiritual wisdom. You can consult him, in the little back parlour behind the shop, upon all manner of subjects which you do not care to mention to your friends. And, for a consideration, he will give you advice which you may or may not follow. At all events, if the herbalist knows his business, he will contrive to command respect, and, at the same time, earn a surprising number of shillings. The establishment of Mr. Elmer Ludgrove, the herbalist of Praed Street, was almost exactly opposite that of Mr. Samuel Copperdock, who dealt in another herb, namely tobacco. There was a considerable contrast between the two shops; that of Mr. Copperdock was always newly painted, and its windows full of tins and boxes bearing the brightest labels known to the trade. The herbalist’s window, on the other hand, was low and frowning, backed by a matchboard partition which effectually precluded any view into the shop. Between the partition and the glass were displayed the usual bunches of dried plants and dishes containing seeds and shrivelled flowers. The door of the shop closed with a spring, and if you had the curiosity to push this open you found yourself in a dark little room, across the centre of which ran a narrow counter. The noise of your entry would bring Mr. Ludgrove through a second door, shrouded by a heavy curtain, and he would ask you politely what he could do for you. Mr. Ludgrove’s appearance was certainly in keeping with his calling. He was tall and thin, with a pronounced stoop and a deep but not unpleasant voice. But it was his head that you looked at instinctively. Above the massive forehead and powerfully-chiselled features was a wealth of long, snow-white hair, balanced by a flowing beard of the same colour. His eyes, behind his iron-rimmed spectacles, looked at you benignly, but they conveyed the impression that they saw further into your mind than the eyes of the mere casual stranger. If you were a mere customer for some simple remedy, you came away with the pleasant feeling of having been treated with unusual courtesy. If your business was such that Mr. Ludgrove invited you to discuss it with him in the room behind the curtain, you very soon found out that behind Mr. Ludgrove’s impressive presence there lay a wealth of wisdom and experience. Praed Street, which beneath its squalor possesses a vein of native shrewdness, had very soon estimated Mr. Ludgrove’s worth. That neighbourhood had very few secrets, romantic or sordid, which, sooner or later, were not told in halting whispers behind the sound-defying curtain. And, whatever the secret might be, the teller of it never became swallowed up again in the stream of humanity which flowed past Mr. Ludgrove’s door without some grain of comfort, material or moral, which as often as not had cost the recipient nothing.