He withdrew the cork and smelt the fluid critically. It had rather an agreeable smell—slightly sickly, perhaps, but on the whole pleasant. In placing it to his lips, he observed the label. “Some people would read that,” ran his thoughts, “but as it probably deals with just such another case as Mrs. Baxter’s, I think I won’t.” And he swallowed the contents of the bottle unto the last drain. The action was typical of Eliphalet. Small details, not connected with his calling, he invariably ignored. They fidgeted and oppressed him, and it is probable, but for the zealous attentiveness of his dresser, Potter, he would have strode the streets with buttonless clothes and laceless boots. Certainly Potter would never have allowed his master to consume a bottle full of unexplored liquid without first ascertaining in what measure it should be taken. But Potter had been summoned to the bedside of a departing aunt, and Eliphalet, confronted with the problem of “doing for” himself, had set about it by the shortest route. Messrs. Enoch had expressly stated on their unread label that not more than thirty drops should be taken at a single dose—and not more than three doses _per diem_. “Taken in excess,” so ran the legend, “the cure might have effects prejudicial to the system.” Roughly speaking, Eliphalet Cardomay had consumed some three thousand drops, and already their subtle powers were at work. Being a strict teetotaler, and unfamiliar with spirituous influences, he was at once sensible of exhilaration and a tingling warmth in his vitals. With feet dangling, he sat on the edge of the bed, blinking and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “An original flavour,” he soliloquised. “Yes—I think I like it.” Then, donning a dressing-gown, he crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell. “Saakes alive,” said the worthy Lancashire landlady, “ye’ll never be goin’ to get oop with that ’eavy cold an’ all?” “Duty before ailments,” observed Eliphalet gravely. “May I have a can of warm water here, and a plate of soup and a rack of toast when I come downstairs?” When the water arrived, accompanied by advice to get back to bed, he set about to shave a twenty-hours’ stubble from his chin. It was a spasmodic effort, and he reflected how rapidly his cold had pulled him down. “We are getting old and palsied,” he confided to his reflection in the mirror. While washing, he experienced a novel and peculiar sensation—just as if all his nerves were transmitting electric messages to their various centres—messages which seemed to run, “I’m having a riotous time here—what’s the news with you?” Moreover, he had a curious conviction that his brain-cells were opening and closing in the most unusual way. Little glimpses of long-forgotten incidents raced across his mental screen, to disappear or be obliterated by some succeeding impression. During the process of putting on his collar and tie quite right such pictures came and went.