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like you.” He gave a throaty chuckle and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. “How’s Camille?” he asked abruptly.
    “Camille?”
    “Oh, excuse me. Mrs. Gladstone, I mean. For some reason I don’t think of you and her according to your last names.”
    “She’s quite fine,” I said curtly.
    Hardwicke grunted. “Quite fine, yes, indeed.” And then he glanced at me and once again he was curiously amused.
    I smiled, not quite understanding the joke and he drew in his breath.
    “You ask me why I chose you?” he said and suddenly reached over and lifted the partial cadaver out of the tray. The smell of formaldehyde filled the area. “Because you’re clever; my boy. See here. See this remnant of a human being. Trunk. What little soft tissue remains shows some putrefactive changes. Spine’s been severed in the upper lumbar region. No rib cage. The entire pelvis is here and its organs, with the exception of the genitalia. Question: Is it a male or a female skeleton?”
    “From the bone configuration it’s obvious it isn’t female,” I said. “And besides, the amount of adherent prostatic tissue clearly reveals it’s a male skeleton.”
    “Yes...” he said slowly. “The amount of adherent prostatic tissue. You see, you are clever.” He glanced at the hulk of flesh and bone and back at me. “Can you tell me anything else?”
    I leaned forward and scrutinized the mass. The formaldehyde caused my eyes to sting a little, but I tried not to flinch. I examined the rivulets of grayed flesh, the dull blue vascular bundles. It was a decaying hunk of meat, the ignominious remains of extensive dissections. It was the work of one of two possible perpetrators—medical students or wolves. Other than that I was at a loss as to what he was looking for.
    “I’m afraid I do not see anything else, sir,” I said reluctantly.
    “Don’t be afraid, Gladstone,” he returned. “That’s exactly what I was looking for. Outside of a limited number of possible chemical differences, there’s nothing to distinguish this remnant from any other remnant. We’re all the same here.” His gloved hands squeezed the flesh like a sponge and little rivers of formaldehyde trickled between his fingers. “One cannot distinguish between the internal organs of a baronet or a beggar.” He allowed the portion of spine and pelvis to slide back into their murky bath.
    After that little exposition he ran through a list of duties and scheduled the evenings I would be working. My responsibilities consisted of various mundane tests and the tagging of anatomical specimens. When he had finished I said, “May I inquire, Dr. Hardwicke, does any of this have to do with your research?”
    “No,” he replied.
    “May I ask what your research entails?”
    He turned to me and his expression became utterly serious. “No!” he snapped. “I never divulge what I am working on.” He continued to glare at me for a moment as if my question had been so improper he was considering some further reprimand. I was about to beg for pardon when, just as swiftly, his frown melted. “I’m sorry, my boy. It was a harmless question. Please excuse me for being so flammable.” He smiled amiably and offered me his hand.
    Word that I was Dr. Cletus Hardwicke’s personal assistant spread quickly and I was soon the envy of my peers. Elder professors seldom took on such youthful assistants, and when they did it was a most prized distinction. It established reputation. I felt very warmly toward the strange little man for this. In the trial-by-fire world of academe, reputation was the most important passport.
    True to his word, Dr. Hardwicke was often absent from his laboratory. I, however, was not. I often stayed well into the night and when I left, the streets were foggy and deserted. I did not mind. The stroll by the majestic pillars of the university was relaxing. The darkness was tranquil. Only the distant whistle of the commissionaires hailing cabs from the rank by