Claire Veniza rose to her feet, and her eyes went swiftly, sharply, to the figure standing there--a man of perhaps thirty years of age, of powerful build, and yet whose frame seemed now woefully loose, disjointed and without virility. Her eyes traveled to the man's clothing that was dirty, spotted, and in dire need of sponging, to the necktie that hung awry, to the face that, but for its unhealthy, pasty-yellow complexion, would have been almost strikingly handsome, to the jet-black eyes that somehow at the moment seemed to lack fire and life. And with a little despairing shrug of her shoulders, Claire Veniza turned away her head, and pointed to the form of John Bruce on the floor. “I--I am afraid it is very serious, Doctor Crang,” she faltered. “That's all right, Claire,” he said complacently. “That's all right, my dear. You can leave it with confidence to Sydney Angus Crang, M.D.” She drew a little away as he stepped forward, her face hardening into tight little lines. Hidden, her hands clasped anxiously together. It--it was what she had feared. Doctor Sydney Angus Crang, gold medalist from one of the greatest American universities, brilliant far beyond his fellows, with additional degrees from London, from Vienna, from Heaven alone knew where else, was just about entering upon, or emerging from, a groveling debauch with that Thing to which he had pawned his manhood, his intellect and his soul, that Thing of gray places, of horror, of forgetfulness, of bliss, of torture--cocaine. Halfway from the threshold to where John Bruce lay, Doctor Crang halted abruptly. “Hello!” he exclaimed, and glanced with suddenly darkening face from Claire Veniza to the form of John Bruce, and back to Claire Veniza again. “Oh, _will_ you hurry!” she implored. “Can't you see that the wound----” “I am more interested in the man than in the wound,” said Doctor Crang, and there was a hint of menace in his voice. “Quite a gentleman of parts! I had expected--let me see what I had expected--well, say, one of the common knife-sticking breed that curses this neighborhood.” Claire Veniza stamped her foot. “Oh, hurry!” she burst out wildly. “Don't stand there talking while the man is dying! Do something!” Doctor Crang advanced to John Bruce's side, set down the little handbag he was carrying, and began to examine the wound. “Yes, quite a gentleman of parts!” he repeated. His lips had thinned. “How did he get here?” “I do not know,” she answered. “He came in through that window there and fell on the floor.” “How peculiar!” observed Doctor Crang. “A _gentleman_ down here in this locality, who is, yes, I will state it as a professional fact, in a very critical state, climbs in through Miss Claire Veniza's window, and----”