amper on me. In fact, you can't. Have you that
last prescription of Dr. Foxton's handy? My liver wants a tonic."

The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and
retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop.

"Shall I send it?" came his voice.

"No. I'll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don't mind."

For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and
fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause
accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had
considered them in the "mixture."

The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger,
was seated at the telegraphist's desk, tapping a new instrument. The G.
P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages.

Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His
kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle.

"Good morning, Mr. Martin," said Grant.

"Good morning. What can I do for you?" was the stiff reply. Grant was in
no mind to be rebuffed, however.

"I must have a word with you in private," he said.

"I'm sorry--but my time is quite full."

"I'm sorry, too, but the matter is urgent."

The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element
in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist's attention.
Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at
ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant's compelling gaze.

"Come into the back room," he said nervously. "Call me if I'm needed," he
added, nodding to his assistant.

Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the "back
parlor" through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave
a delightful glimpse of The Hollies. A window-box of mignonette filled
the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there,
but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book on
the table.

"Now, Mr. Martin," he said gravely, "you and I should have a serious
talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain
malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me
these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter's age
they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can
regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I
am here to-day. That is why I c