He was tall and elderly, with a shag of gray beard and a shining dome of forehead over a nervous, blue-eyed face.

He was the druggist, Andrew Drew, who had his little pharmacy on the opposite side of the street, a little below Anderson's grocery.

He united with his drug business a local and long-distance telephone and the Western Union telegraph-office, and he rented and sold commutation-books of railroad tickets to the City.
"Good-day," he said.

Then, before Anderson could respond, he plunged at once into the subject on his mind, a subject that was wrinkling his forehead.

However, he first closed the office door and glanced around furtively.