I have the
stuff. But--this time--it was--" She rambled off incoherently.

"Who made you do it? Who told you?" prompted Constance. "For whom would
you do anything?"

Adele moaned and clutched Constance's hand convulsively. Constance did
not pause to consider the ethics of questioning a half-unconscious
girl. Her only idea was to get at the truth.

"Who was it?" she reiterated.

Adele turned weakly.

"Dr. Price," she murmured as Constance bent her ear to catch even the
faintest sound. "He told me--all about it--last night--in the car."

Instantly Constance understood. Adele was the only one outside who held
the secret, who could upset the carefully planned frame-up that was to
protect the real head of the dope trust who had paid liberally to save
his own wretched skin.

She rose quickly and wheeled about suddenly on Drummond.

"You will convict Dr. Price also," she said in a low tone. "This girl
must not be dragged down, too. You will leave her alone, and both you
and Mr. Muller will hand over that money to her for her cure of the
habit."

Drummond started forward angrily, but fell back as Constance added in a
lower but firmer tone, "Or I'll have you all up on a charge of
attempting murder."

Drummond turned surlily to those of his "dope squad," who remained:

"You can go, boys," he said brusquely.

"There's been some mistake here."

CHAPTER XII

THE FUGITIVES

"Newspaper pictures seldom look like the person they represent,"
asserted Lawrence Macey nonchalantly.

Constance Dunlap looked squarely at the man opposite her at the table,
oblivious to the surroundings. It was a brilliant sight in the great
after-theater rendezvous, the beautiful faces and gowns, the exquisite
music, the bright lights and the gayety. She had chosen this time and
place for a reason. She had hoped that the contrast with what she had
to say would be most marked in its influence on the man.

"Nevertheless," she replied keenly, "I recognize the picture--as though
you were Bertillon's new 'spoken portrait' of this Graeme Mackenzie."

She deliberately folded up a newspaper clipping and shoved it into her
hand-bag on a chair beside the table.

Lawrence Macey met her eye unflinchingly.

"Suppose," he drawled, "just for the sake of argument, that you are
right. What would you do?"

Constance looked at the unruffled exterior of the man. With her keen
perception she knew that it covered just as calm an interior. He would