Coffee and a bromo were what he
needed.

But it was a great awakening to him when he found a restaurant and
learned that he could neither drink the coffee nor get the lid off the
bromo bottle. Fragrant coffee-steam hung over the glass percolator, but
even this steam was as a brick wall to his probing touch. Miller started
gloomily to thread his way through the waiters in back of the counter
again.

Moments later he stood in the street and there were tears swimming in
his eyes.

"Helen!" His voice was a pleading whisper. "Helen, honey, where are
you?"

There was no answer but the pitiful palpitation of utter silence. And
then, there was movement at Dave Miller's right!

Something shot from between the parked cars and crashed against him;
something brown and hairy and soft. It knocked him down. Before he could
get his breath, a red, wet tongue was licking his face and hands, and he
was looking up into the face of a police dog!

Frantic with joy at seeing another in this city of death, the dog would
scarcely let Miller rise. It stood up to plant big paws on his shoulders
and try to lick his face. Miller laughed out loud, a laugh with a
throaty catch in it.

"Where'd you come from, boy?" he asked. "Won't they talk to you, either?
What's your name, boy?"

There was a heavy, brass-studded collar about the animal's neck, and
Dave Miller read on its little nameplate: "Major."

"Well, Major, at least we've got company now," was Miller's sigh of
relief.

For a long time he was too busy with the dog to bother about the sobbing
noises. Apparently the dog failed to hear them, for he gave no sign.
Miller scratched him behind the ear.

"What shall we do now, Major? Walk? Maybe your nose can smell out
another friend for us."

They had gone hardly two blocks when it came to him that there was a
more useful way of spending their time. The library! Half convinced that
the whole trouble stemmed from his suicide shot in the head--which was
conspicuously absent now--he decided that a perusal of the surgery books
in the public library might yield something he could use.

* * * * *

That way they bent their steps, and were soon mounting the broad cement
stairs of the building. As they went beneath the brass turnstile, the
librarian caught Miller's attention with a smiling glance. He smiled
back.

"I'm trying to find something on brain surgery," he explained. "I--"

With a shock, then, he re