him to leave a second corpse by
the roadside.

When it was over, however, it appeared that the stimulant had been
partly assimilated, for Melchard was able to stand. When he had got his
arms into the overcoat, Dick led him to the car.

From the locker under the seat he produced a thick tumbler.

"Get in," he said, and half-filled the glass from the bottle.

Melchard lay back exhausted in the near-side corner, examining with dull
eyes the havoc made by Mut-mut's claw.

"Drink that," said Dick.

Melchard shook his head.

"I hate spirits," he objected feebly. "That's his stuff--Mut-mut's."

"You'll hate it worse soon," was all the answer he got; and drank,
gasping between gulps.

Knowing that the man had not a kick left in him, Dick ventured, rather
than fetch Amaryllis into sight of the uncovered corpse, to mount the
front seat and drive the car to the place where she sat waiting.

When she was beside him, he asked if she were fit to drive.

"Yes," she answered. "But I nearly went to sleep waiting for you, Dick."

"I don't think either of us is fit to drive her to town," he said,
looking at his watch. "I'm pretty tough, but I'm nearly all in. How
you've stuck it as you have, I can't understand. So we'll have a shot at
that five-fifteen. We've about seven miles to go. Thirty m.p.h.--that's
fourteen minutes. Bar hold-ups, that's good enough. It's just five to
five now, but I must fix up my passenger."

Amaryllis looked round at Melchard.

"What are you going to do with him?" she asked, turning back upon Dick a
face of disgust.

"Take him up to town," said Dick.

"How beastly!" said Amaryllis.

"Doped, my child--most royally doped--with a kindly poison that he
loathes."

He left her and took his seat beside the prisoner. Amaryllis, not a
little vexed by the addition to their party, started the car.

As they glided down the wide bends of the descent, Dick plied the
wretched Melchard with dose after dose of throat-rasping spirit. After
the second half-tumbler the man wept, sobbing out entreaties for mercy.
And Amaryllis felt a wave of cold fear run down her spine when she heard
the voice and words of her lover's reply--words not meant for her
hearing she knew for the voice was so low that it was only the precision
of the speaker's passion which carried them, against the wind, to her
ears.

"Pity! Pity on a filthy creature that never felt it--not even for his
own filthy servants! Pity for a lickspittle