e business of the Relief
Pills."

Dr. Surtaine was instantly on the defensive. "Don't go getting any
sentimental notions now, Hal. It's a perfectly legal business."

"So much the worse for the law, then."

"You talk like an anarchist!" returned his father, shocked. "Do you want
to be better than the law?"

"If the law permits murder--I do," said Hal, very low.

Indignation rose up within Dr. Surtaine: not wholly unjustified,
considering his belief that Hal was primarily responsible for the
tragedy. "Are your hands so clean, then?" he asked significantly.

"God knows, they're not!" cried the son, with passion. "I didn't know. I
didn't realize."

"Yet you turn on me--"

"Oh, Dad, I don't want to quarrel with you. All I know is, I can't stay
in this house any more."

Dr. Surtaine pondered for a few minutes. Perhaps it was better that the
boy should go for a time, until his conscience worked out a more
satisfactory state of mind. His own conscience was clear. He was doing
business within the limits set for him by the law and the Post Office
authorities, which had once investigated the "Pills" and given them a
clean bill. Milly Neal should not put the onus of her own recklessness
and immorality upon him. Nevertheless, he was glad that Belford Couch
was coming on; and, by the way, he must telephone a dispatch to him.
Rising, he addressed his son.

"Where shall you go?"

"I don't know. Some hotel. The Dunstan."

"Very well. I'll see you at the office soon, I suppose. Good-night."

All Hal's world whirled about him as he saw his father leave the room.
What seemed to him a monstrous manifestation of chance had overwhelmed
and swept him from all moorings. But was it chance? Was it not, rather,
as McGuire Ellis had suggested, the exemplification of an exact logic?

The closing of the door behind his father sent a current of air across
the room in which a bit of paper on the floor wavered and turned. Hal
picked it up. It was the clipping from the "Clarion"--his
newspaper--which Milly Neal had brought as her justification. One line
of print stood out, writhing as if in an uncontrollable access of
diabolic glee: "Only $1 A Box: Satisfaction Guaranteed"; and above it
the face of the Happy Lady, distorted by the crumpling of the paper,
smirked up at him with a taunt. He thought to interpret that taunt in
the words which Veltman had used, aforetime:--

"What's _your_ percentage?"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE GREATER