Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man.
"Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?"
"Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing his own tongue.
His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that he was on his guard against this clever--too clever Englishman. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas flashed rapidly through their respective minds.
The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a detective) of Monsieur Judas:
"This man has a past, and is always on his guard."
The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature:
"This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful."
There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part of these two men who now met for the first time, except that instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures antipathetic to one another.
Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to his customer in a business fashion:
Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.
"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills."
"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this."
"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."
The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine bottles with downcast eyes.
"I'm afraid--ahem--really, my memory is so bad," he faltered, childishly; "well, I scarcely--ahem--but I think Monsieur Judas will be able to tell you all about it. I have the--ahem--I have the fullest confidence in Monsieur Judas."
"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.
"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but, of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been more."