write."

Von Holzen did as he was bidden. He had also a pocket-book and pencil
in readiness. Slowly, as if drawing from the depths of a long-stored
memory, the dying man dictated a prescription in a mixture of dog-Latin
and Dutch, which his hearer seemed to understand readily enough. The
money, in dull-coloured notes, lay on the table before the writer. The
prescription was a long one, covering many pages of the note-book, and
the particulars as to preparation and temperature of the various liquid
ingredients filled up another two pages.

"There," said the dying man at length, "I have treated you fairly. I
have told you all I know. Give me the money."

Von Holzen crossed the room and placed the notes within the yellow
fingers, which closed over them.

"Ah," said the recipient, "I have had more than that in my hand. I was
rich once, and I spent it all in Amsterdam. Now read over your writing.
I will treat you fairly."

Von Holzen stood by the window and read aloud from his book.

"Yes," said the other. "One sees that you took your diploma at Leyden.
You have made no mistake."

Von Holzen closed the book and replaced it in his pocket. His face bore
no sign of exultation. His somewhat phlegmatic calm successfully
concealed the fact that he had at last obtained information which he
had long sought. A cart rattled past over the cobble-stones, making