iend's face.

"Well--they're not--good."

"Ah. Tell me."

Kars moved from the window. It almost seemed that all that had passed
was incomparable in interest with his present subject. He seated
himself on the corner of the table which held the surgical instruments.

"No. It's not good. It's--it's darned bad." Bill rose abruptly from
his chair and began to pace the room, his trim shoulders hunched as
though he were suddenly driven to a desire for aggression. "Look here,
John," he cried almost vehemently. "If you or I had had that boy set
in our charge, seeing what we saw that first night, and knowing what
I've heard since, could we have quit this lousy city for months and
left him to his fool play over at Pap's? Not on your life. But it's
what Murray's done. Gee, I could almost think he did it purposely."

Kars pointed at the rocker. There was a curious light in his gray
eyes. It was a half smile. Also it possessed a subtle stirring of
fierceness.

"Sit down, Bill," he said calmly. "But start right in from--the start."

The man of healing obeyed mechanically, but he chafed at the restraint.
His usual ease had undergone a serious disturbance. There was nothing
calculated to upset him like the disregard of moral obligation. Crime
he understood, folly he accepted as something belonging to human
nature. But the moral "stunt," as he was wont to characterize it, hurt
him badly. Just now he was regarding Murray McTavish with no very
friendly eyes, and he deplored beyond words the doings of the boy who
was Jessie Mowbray's brother.

"The start!" he exploded. "Where _can_ I start? If the start were as
I see it, it 'ud be to tell you that Murray's a callous skunk who don't
care a whoop for the obligations Allan's murder left on his fat
shoulders. But I guess that's not the start as you see it. That boy!"
He sprang from his seat again and Kars made no further attempt to
restrain him. "He's on the road to the devil faster than an express
locomotive could carry him. He's in the hands of 'Chesapeake' Maude,
who's got him by both feet and neck. And he's handing his bank roll
over to Pap, and his gang, with a shovel. He's half soused any old
time after eleven in the morning. And his back teeth are awash by
midnight 'most every day. You can see him muling around the dance
floor till you get sick of the sight of his darn fool smile, and you
wish all the diamonds Maude wears were lost in the deepest smu