And then an inspiration came to him, and he began to groan. Usually he was not in the habit of groaning when he had an inspiration, but he had a good reason for doing so now. It was part of the plan which had just suggested itself to his resourceful mind. So he proceeded to groan loud enough to be heard by the group of pinochle players in the corner. The waiter, hearing these sounds of anguish, once more stepped up to him, and shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Hey, young feller, brace up!” he growled. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you sick, or is it just an ordinary jag?” Hawley sat up, and clapped both hands to his head, one to each temple. The waiter and the others whose attention had been attracted by his groans could see that his face was distorted as though with great pain. “Oh, my poor head!” groaned the Camera Chap. “It feels as though it would split in two. For the love of Pete, friend, if there’s any bromo seltzer in the house, bring me some in a hurry.” “Sure, we keep it,” said the man. “Just keep quiet a minute, young feller, and I’ll fix up a dose.” The Camera Chap was not surprised to hear that the drug was procurable in Dutch Louie’s place, for he had noticed a sign on the wall as he came in, announcing that it was on sale. “Never mind about fixing it up,” he said to the waiter. “Just bring me the bottle, a glass, and some water. I’ll do the mixing myself.” Patrolman Horgan beckoned to the waiter as the latter was going out to fill the order. “What’s the matter with that guy over there, Harry?” he inquired. “Oh, nothin’ serious; just a headache.” “Is that all?” said the patrolman, in a disgusted tone. “From the way he was groaning just now, I thought he was dyin’. Come on, fellers; it’s my meld.” When the waiter returned with a tray containing a small blue bottle, an empty glass, and a second glass filled with water, Hawley had an unlighted cigar between his teeth, but no one seemed to think it odd for a sick man to indulge in tobacco. The Camera Chap was not in the habit of smoking cigars, but he always carried a couple in his vest pocket, and he had reasons of his own for transferring this one from his pocket to his mouth. He took the bottle of bromo seltzer, and emptied some of the white powder into the empty glass. Then he turned to the waiter. “On second thought, I guess I’ll mix it with vichy instead of plain water,” he said; “I like it better that way.” The waiter shrugged his shoulders, and went out to get a siphon of vichy. As soon as he had gone, the Camera Chap became very busy, but unobtrusively so. His left hand stole into the side pocket of his coat, and when it came out again the closed fist held a quantity of silvery powder. He poised this hand over the glass containing the bromo seltzer, and the silvery powder fell on top of the white powder. Then his right hand went into his coat pocket, and he stealthily drew out a small pocket camera, which he held beneath the table.