His bloodshot
eyes wandered from the half-defaced cards to the objects in the
shop, and he was uncertain in his play. His companion looked at
him as though he were trying to solve some intricate problem that
gave him trouble. He himself was a man who, like the librarian,
had begun life under favourable circumstances, had studied
medicine and had practised it. But he had been unfortunate, and,
though talented, did not possess the qualifications most necessary
for his profession. He had busied himself with chemistry and had
invented a universal panacea which had failed, and in which he had
sunk most of his small capital. Disgusted with his reverses he had
gravitated slowly to his present position. Finding him careless
and indifferent to their wants, his customers had dropped away,
one by one, until he earned barely enough to keep body and soul
together. Only the poorest class of people, emboldened by the mean
aspect of his shop, came in to get a plaster, an ointment or a
black draught, at the lowest possible prices. And yet, in certain
branches, Tiberio Colaisso was a learned man. At all events he had
proved himself able to do all that Meschini asked of him. He was
keen, too, in an indolent way, and a single glance had satisfied
him that something very unusual had happened to the librarian.
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