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I had not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman," said James Cromwell, who, far from being overawed by the evident haughty tone of the other, preserved his composure with admirable success.

      "Then let me repeat, I do not understand why you should have taken the trouble to be present at his funeral. Persons, in general, wait for an invitation before intruding on such occasions," he added, with a palpable sneer.

      "He wouldn't parley so long if he did not know me and fear me," thought James Cromwell, and this conclusion showed that he was not without a certain natural shrewdness.

      "Was Mr. Raymond rich?" he asked, nonchalantly.

      This was more than Paul Morton could bear. He was naturally an irritable man, and he had been obliged to exercise considerable self-control thus far in the interview. It angered him that this insignificant druggist's clerk—this miserable specimen of a man—should have ventured to intrude himself in this manner on his privacy, but the terror of his crime and the consciousness that this man suspected it, had hitherto restrained him.

      But when James Cromwell asked this question, sitting coolly, with one leg crossed over the other, and staring impudently in his face, he could not restrain himself any longer. He rose to his feet with angry vehemence, and pointing to the door with a finger literally quivering with rage, he said, hoarsely:

      "You impertinent scoundrel! begone instantly, or I will summon my servants and have you kicked down my front steps!"

      "That might not be altogether prudent, Mr. Morton," said James Cromwell.

      "Might not be prudent! What do you mean by your cursed impudence?" demanded the merchant, glaring furiously at the druggist's clerk.

      "What do I mean?" repeated James Cromwell. "Do you wish me to answer your question?"

      "I demand that you answer my question, and that immediately," said the merchant, hardly knowing what he did, so carried away was he by his unreasonable anger.

      "Very well, I will do so," said the clerk, quietly, "but, as it may take a brief time, will you not be kind enough to resume your seat?"

      CHAPTER VIII.

      JAMES CROMWELL'S TRIUMPH

      The coolness displayed by James Cromwell had its effect upon the merchant. Mechanically he obeyed, and resumed his seat.

      "Say what have you to say, and be done with it," he muttered.

      "In the first place, then, I beg leave to ask you a question. Do you not remember me?" and the clerk looked searchingly with his cold gray eyes in the face of Paul Morton.

      "I may possibly have met you before," he replied with an effort, "but I meet a great many people, and there is no particular reason, that I am aware of, why I should remember you in particular."

      "I also meet a considerable number of persons," said James Cromwell, "but circumstances have led me to remember you very well."

      "Well, grant that you remember me," said the merchant, with nervous impatience, "what then?"

      "It may be necessary for me to remind you that I am employed in a druggist's shop on the Bowery."

      "I hope you like your situation," said Paul Morton, with a sneer.

      "No, I don't like it, and that is the reason why I have come to you, hoping that you will help me to something better."

      This was said with quiet self-possession, and Paul Morton began to realize with uneasiness that this young man, whom he had looked upon with contempt, was not so easily to be overawed or managed as he had expected.

      "This is a cool request, considering that you are a comparative stranger to me."

      "But consider the peculiar circumstances," said James Cromwell, significantly.

      "What peculiar circumstances?" demanded the merchant, desperately.

      "Shall I mention them?" asked Cromwell, pointedly.

      "If you want me to understand, yes. You are talking in enigmas, and I never was good at understanding enigmas."

      "Then," said James Cromwell, leaning slightly forward, and looking intently at Mr. Morton, "may I ask to what use you have put the subtle poison which you purchased of me ten days since?"

      The color rushed to Paul Morton's face at this direct interrogation.

      "The poison?" he repeated.

      "Yes, you certainly have not forgotten the purchase."

      "I think you must be mistaken in the person."

      "Pardon me, I am not."

      "Suppose that I did buy poison, how should you identify me with the purchaser, and how came you to know where I lived?"

      "I sent a boy to follow you home," said Cromwell.

      "You dared to do that?"

      "Why not? We have no curiosity about our ordinary customers, but when a person makes such a purchase as you did, we feel inclined to learn all we can about him."

      "A praiseworthy precaution! Well, I admit that I did buy the poison. What then?"

      "I asked to what purpose you had put it?"

      "Very well, I have no objection to tell you, although I deny your right to intrude in my private affairs, which I regard as a piece of gross impertinence. I bought it, as I think I stated to you at the time, at the request and for the use of a friend."

      "Would you tell me the friend's name?" asked the clerk, imperturbably.

      "He lives in Thirty-seventh Street."

      "What is his name?"

      "None of your business," exclaimed the merchant, passionately.

      "I beg your pardon, but I was blamed by my employer for not taking down the name of the purchaser, and I told him in return that I would gather full particulars."

      "You may tell him it is all right. He must have heard of me and of my firm, and that will satisfy him."

      "But the name of this gentleman in Thirty-seventh Street–"

      "It is not necessary to the purpose."

      "Has there been a death in his family within ten days?" asked the clerk in quiet tones, but there was a significance in them which sent a thrill through the frame of his listener.

      "What makes you ask that?" he stammered.

      "I will tell you," said James Cromwell, boldly throwing off his reserve. "It is as well to be frank, and there is no use in mincing matters. I do not believe this story of the man in Thirty-seventh Street. I think you bought the article for your own use. Since the purchase there has been a death in your house."

      "Your inference is ridiculous," said the merchant, nervously. "My intimate and dear friend, Mr. Raymond, was sick of an incurable disease, as the physician will testify, and it could have terminated in no other way."

      "I am quite willing to believe you are right," said the clerk. "Still, under the circumstances, you will not object to an investigation. I feel it my duty to inform a coroner of the facts in the case, and if on examination no traces of the action of poison can be found in the deceased, of course you are entirely exonerated from suspicion!"

      "What!" exclaimed Paul Morton. "Do you think I will suffer myself to be subjected to such a degrading suspicion—a man of my position in society—what advantage could I possibly reap from my friend's death?"

      "He was a rich man," suggested James Cromwell, significantly.

      "That is true," said the merchant, with self-possession. "He was a rich man."

      "And he may have left his property to you."

      "You happen to be mistaken there. He had left his property to his son, a boy of fourteen."

      "Where is this son?" asked the clerk, a little taken aback by this discovery, which was new to him.

      "He is now in my house."

      "And suppose the boy dies?"

      It

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