ce of the interne with the
batteries.

"If you 're going to be here all night," said the white-coated
individual, "it 'll help me out a lot if you 'll use these batteries
for me. Put them on at their full force and apply them to his cheeks,
his hands, his wrists and the soles of his feet alternately. From the
way he acts, there 's some sort of morphinic poisoning. We can't tell
what it is--except that it acts like a narcotic. And about the only
way we can pull him out is with these applications."

The interne turned over the batteries and went on about his work, while
Fairchild, hoping within his heart that he had not placed an impediment
in the way of Harry's recovery by not telling what he knew of Crazy
Laura and her concoctions, began his task. Yet he was relieved by the
knowledge that such information could aid but little. Nothing but a
chemical analysis could show the contents of the strange brews which
the insane woman made from her graveyard herbiage, and long before that
could come, Harry might be dead. And so he pressed the batteries
against the unconscious man's cheeks, holding them there tightly, that
the full shock of the electricity might permeate the skin and arouse
the sluggish blood once more to action. Then to the hands, the wrists,
the feet and back again; it was the beginning of a routine that was to
last for hours.

Midnight came and early morning. With dawn, the figure on the bed
stirred slightly and groaned. Fairchild looked up, to see the doctor
just entering.

"I think he 's regaining consciousness."

"Good." The physician brought forth his hypodermic. "That means a bit
of rest for me. A little shot in the arm, and he ought to be out of
danger in a few hours."

Fairchild watched him as he boiled the needle over the little gas jet
at the head of the cot, then dissolved a white pellet preparatory to
sending a resuscitory fluid into Harry's arm.

"You 've been to Judge Richmond's?" he asked at last.

"Yes." Then the doctor stepped close to the bed. "I 've just closed
his eyes--forever."

Ten minutes later, after another examination of Harry's pupils, he was
gone, a weary, tired figure, stumbling home to his rest--rest that
might be disturbed at any moment--the reward of the physician. As for
Fairchild, he sat a long time in thought, striving to find some way to
send consolation to the girl who was grieving now, struggling to figure
a means of telling her that he cared, th