The sick man looked puzzled, and frowned, as if disappointed. Perhaps his cloudy brain could not assort this information with his purpose. Presently his brow contracted, his face twitched violently, the right leg shot out. “I say! It’s too bad,” the young man exclaimed sympathetically. “I wish I knew what to do for you. Where can that ambulance be?” He laid one hand on the sick man’s hot brow, and held his arm with the other. “Easy now!” he exclaimed, as the right arm began whirling. “There! Steady! It’s going off.” Instead of closing his eyes, as he had done after the previous attacks, and relapsing into coma, the sick man made an immediate effort to speak. “Co-come here,” he articulated faintly. “Important, very important.” He groped feebly for his inner pocket. “You want me to take out this bundle?” Brainard asked, laying his hand on the bulky wallet. The man made an affirmative sign, and kept his eyes steadily on Brainard while the latter gently extracted the pocketbook. “You—you will do something for me?” the stranger said more distinctly than he had hitherto spoken, as if urgency were clearing his mind. “You can—you can start to-night?” “I’m not very busy,” the young man said, with a laugh. “I guess I could start for Hong-Kong on a few minutes’ notice.” “Not Hong-Kong,” the old man labored forth literally. “You’re honest?” It was said in a tone of self-conviction rather than of question. “Oh, I guess so,” the young man answered lightly. “At least, what’s called honest—never had a chance to steal anything worth taking!” He added more seriously, to quiet the sick man, who seemed to be laboring under excitement, “Tell me what you want done, and I’ll do my best to put it through for you.” The sick man’s eyes expressed relief, and then his brow contracted, as if he were summoning all his powers in a final effort to make a clogged brain do his urgent will. “Lis-lis-listen,” he murmured. “No—no, write—write it down,” he went on, as Brainard leaned forward. Brainard looked about his bare room for paper, but in vain. He felt in his pockets for a stray envelope, then drew from his overcoat a roll of manuscript. He glanced at it dubiously for a moment, then tore off the last sheet, which had on one side a few lines of typewriting. With a gesture of indifference, he turned to the sick man and prepared to take his message. “All ready,” he remarked. “I can take it in shorthand, if you want.” “Sev-en, thir-ty-one, and four. Sev-en, thir-tyone, and four. Sev-en, thir-ty-one, and four,” he repeated almost briskly. Brainard looked at him inquiringly, and the stranger whispered the explanation: “Combi-na-tion pri-vate safe—understand?” Brainard nodded. “Where?” “Office—San Francisco.” The young man whistled. “That’s a good ways off! What do you want me to do there?” “Take _everything_.” “What shall I do with the stuff? Bring it here to New York?” the young man inquired, with growing curiosity.