The sick man’s blue eyes stared at him steadily, with a look of full intelligence. “I shall be dead then,” he mumbled. “Oh, I hope not!” Brainard remarked. But with unflinching eyes, the sick man continued: “You must have—pow-er—pow-er of attorney.” He brought the words out with difficulty, not wasting his strength by discussing his chances of recovery. He was evidently growing weaker, and Brainard had to bend close to his lips in order to catch the faint whisper, “Take it down!” And with his face beginning to twitch, and the convulsive tremors running over his body, the sick man summoned all his will and managed to dictate a power of attorney in legal terms, as if he were familiar with the formula. When he had finished, his eyes closed, and his lips remained open. Brainard dropped his paper and felt for the sick man’s heart. It was still beating faintly. After a few moments, the eyes opened mistily, and again the man made an effort to collect himself for another effort. “What shall I do with the stuff?” Brainard inquired. “Ge-get it out of the country. Take it to—to Ber-Ber-Ber—” “Bermuda?” Brainard suggested. “Ber_lin_!” the sick man corrected with a frown. As if to impress his messenger with the seriousness of his work, he added, “If you don’t get away, they’ll—kill you.” “Oh!” Brainard exclaimed, impressed. The blue eyes examined the young man steadily, as if they would test his metal. Then, satisfied, the man murmured: “Quick—must—sign—quick! Now!” he concluded, as his face began to twitch. Brainard handed him a pen, and held his right arm to steady him while he scrawled his name—“H. Krutzmacht.” The sick man traced the letters slowly, patiently, persisting until he had dashed a heavy line across the t’s and another beneath the name; then he dropped the pen and closed his eyes. When another moment of control came to him, he whispered uneasily: “Witness? Must have witness.” “We’ll find some one—don’t worry,” the young man replied lightly. “The ambulance man, when he comes, if he ever does come!” Brainard did not yet take very seriously the idea of starting that night for San Francisco to rifle a safe. “Mo-mo-money,” the voice began, and the eyes wandered to the fat wallet which Brainard had deposited on the table. Brainard lifted the wallet. “Plen-plen-plenty of mon-money!” “I understand,” the young man replied. “There’s enough cash for the journey in here.” As he laid the wallet down, there was the welcome sound of feet in the passage outside, and with an exclamation of relief the young man flung open the door. The ambulance surgeon was there with an assistant and a stretcher. With a muttered explanation for his delay, the doctor went at once to the sick man and examined him, while Brainard told what he knew of his strange guest. “Tries to talk all the time—must be something on his mind!” he said, as another convulsion seized the sick man. “Been doped, I should say.”