n. He may even suspect that you had something to do with
what happened to his water supply.

"No; but when a man begins to suspect he interprets things which
otherwise would carry no meaning. So far he connects us only through the
original transaction with Winton. If he knew the truth he'd probably
twist your neck like a chicken's."

Mr. Braden moved that threatened part of his anatomy uneasily. "He
wouldn't dare to attempt physical violence."

French laughed. "You don't know that young man, Braden, because you're a
different breed. I know him, because I've seen his kind before. I made a
mistake in quarreling with him."

"I'd like to see him beaten to a pulp," said Mr. Braden viciously, "but
after all, it's the money we want. I'm having a devil of a time to keep
my head above water, and you're broke."

"Yes, I'm broke," French admitted. "These things are the only chance I
see of getting money. When a man reaches my age and faces poverty to
which he is unaccustomed, he will do almost anything for money. I want
to see the cities and some of the men I knew thirty years ago, before I
die. For money to do that I'd give--give--I would--give--"

Something seemed to have gone wrong with Godfrey French's enunciation.
It resembled nothing so much as a phonographic record with a
running-down motor. He did not stammer, but the words came slowly and
then blurred, as if his tongue had lost power. His face, on which a look
of blank wonder had come, suddenly contorted, his hand caught at his
breast, he threw his head back, chin up, mouth open, gasping.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Braden cried, startled at this sudden
transformation. "Are you ill? What--"

"Get--" Godfrey French muttered indistinctly, "get--" He fell back in
his chair, inert, sagging arms loose, his face gray, unconscious.

For an instant Mr. Braden stared at his associate horrified. It was as
if he had been seized, struck down and throttled by an invisible hand
which might claim another victim. Recovering, he poured a glass of
liquor with a shaking hand, and shivered as the rim clinked against the
unconscious man's teeth. He ran to the door.

"Help!" he shouted wildly to the echoing darkness of the hall. "Come,
somebody! Help!"

His call was answered by Kathleen and young Larry.

"Your father!" Mr. Braden quavered. But Kathleen, pushing past him, ran
to her father's side.

"He has a hypodermic somewhere," she said. "Look in his room, Larry,
quick!" Young