rish in all of
us," sighed Janice. "I was glad when I saw that black-haired man go
down. What did he want Hopewell's violin for?"

"Don't know. Just meanness, perhaps. They doctored Hopewell's drink
somehow, and he was acting like a fool and playing ridiculously."

They could talk plainly before the storekeeper, for he really did not
know what was going on. His face was blank and his eyes staring, but
he had buttoned the violin beneath the breast of his coat.

"Come on, old fellow," Frank said, putting a heavy hand on Drugg's
shoulder. "Let's be going. It's too wet to stand here."

The storekeeper made no objection. Indeed, as they walked along,
Hopewell between Frank and Janice, who carried the umbrella, Drugg
seemed to be moving in a daze. His head hung on his breast; he said no
word; and his feet stumbled as though they were leaden and he had no
feeling in them.

"Mr. Bowman!" exclaimed Janice, at last, and under her breath, "he is
ill!"

"I am beginning to believe so myself," the civil engineer returned.
"I've seen enough drunken fellows before this to know that Hopewell
doesn't show many of the usual symptoms."

Janice halted suddenly. "There's a light in Mr. Massey's back room,"
she said.

"Eh? Back of the drugstore? Yes, I see it," Bowman said, puzzled.

"Why not take Mr. Drugg there and see if Massey can give him something?
I hate to take him home to 'Rill in this condition."

"Something to straighten him up--eh?" cried the engineer. "Good idea.
If he's there and will let us in," he added, referring to the druggist,
for the front store was entirely dark, it being now long past the usual
closing hour of all stores in Polktown.

Janice and Frank led Hopewell Drugg to the side door of the shop, he
making no objection to the change in route. It was doubtful if he even
knew where they were taking him. He seemed in a state of partial
syncope.

Frank had to knock the second time before there was any answer. They
heard voices--Massey's and another. Then the druggist came to the
entrance, unbolted it and stuck his head out--his gray hair all ruffled
up in a tuft which made him, with his big beak and red-rimmed eyes,
look like a startled cockatoo.

"Who's this, now? Jack Besmith again? What did I tell you?" he
snapped. Then he seemed to see that he was wrong, and the next moment
exclaimed: "Wal! I am jiggered!" for, educated man though he was, Mr.
Massey had lived in the hamlet of his