But Clifford sharply closed the door upon the pair, blocked Jack’s way, and laid a detaining hand upon Jack’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Jack,” he said, “and we’ll have that little old drink together.” “Don’ wan’ drink with you. Goin’ with m’ frien’s.” A stubborn, vicious look had come into Jack’s face, a look that Clifford knew meant trouble. “Just one little old drink, Jack, and then you can go with your friends.” Jack regarded Clifford’s impeding figure, and grinned cunningly. “All ri’--jus’ one drink.” “He’s already had too damned much,” growled the elder Morton. Clifford gave the father an imperative, knowing look, pushed Jack down into his chair, and pressed a button. “Send Monsieur Le Bain,” he said to the answering waiter; and to Jack: “I’m going to order the drinks, Jack, and we’re going to switch to high-balls--and we’re going to see if this dump has some Scotch that’s really Scotch.” As Le Bain appeared, Clifford stepped quickly to the door, spoke in a low voice, and returned to the table. Presently Le Bain himself entered with three glasses which he set down in careful order before the men, and then withdrew. “Here’s how,” said Clifford, and sipped his glass. Jack tossed his down and rose unsteadily. “Now, guess I’ll go find m’ frien’s,” he declared. “Not yet, Jack,”--and Clifford pushed him again back into place. “There’s going to be one more round, and it’s on you. I gave Le Bain the order.” Mr. Morton, not touching his glass, sharply watched the two. Jack grinned cunningly at Clifford; then his face became vacuous, heavy; and then he slumped forward, and head and shoulders lay inertly among the wine-glasses and the dishes of the interrupted supper. “What’s happened to him?” the father asked sharply. “Doped.” “Doped? What for?” “Didn’t you see there was no handling him in the mood he was in? Le Bain keeps his own knock-out drops for use on customers who become obstreperous--and I ordered him to fix Jack’s drink. The dose is light--it won’t hurt him.” Clifford abruptly changed the subject. “Well, you’ve got Jack. What are you going to do with him?” Mr. Morton did not answer; his proud, powerful face, now pale, was fixed upon his son. Clifford also shifted his gaze to the huddled figure. Despite everything, Clifford really liked this good-natured piece of driftwood which washed so irresponsibly upon this great tide of pleasure. But what he felt most strongly at this moment was the ironical caprice of Destiny, which had enlarged so minor and will-less a figure, a mere pawn in this big human game, into so all-important a factor in Mary Regan’s life, and his own--and in the designs of many persons. Clifford turned to the father. “Well--what next?” he prompted. “I wish to God I knew!” Mr. Morton burst out, his reserve suddenly leaving him. “See what he’s come to! See what he’s done to himself!” “He didn’t do it--at least not all,” Clifford said quietly. “Who did, then?” “Several persons--but chiefly his father.”