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Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the

middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his

pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the decided

step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty

streets--much dirtier than usual, for the best public

thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of terror--he

stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with his

own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous,

up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.

Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his

counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. "Whew!" the

chemist whistled softly, as he read it. "Hi! hi! hi!"

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:

"For you, citizen?"

"For me."

"You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the

consequences of mixing them?"

"Perfectly."