“Does anybody else know of this, Corinne?” he asked at last in a low-pitched voice. “Nobody.” “Nobody must,” he exclaimed firmly. Then he added gently--“Why did you tell me?” “He asked me to. It would all have come out in the end, and he didn't want you to see McGowan and not know the truth. Keep still--some one is knocking,” she whispered, her fingers pressed to her lips in her fright. “I know it is McGowan, Jack. Shall I see him, or will you?” “I will--you stay here.” Jack lifted himself erect and braced back his shoulders. He intended to be polite to McGowan, but he also intended to be firm. He also intended to refuse him any information or promise of any kind until the regular monthly meeting of the Church Board which would occur on Monday. This would give him time to act, and perhaps to save the situation, desperate as it looked. With this in his mind he turned the key and threw wide the door. It was the doctor who stood outside. He seemed to be laboring under some excitement. “I heard you were here, Mr. Breen--come upstairs.” Jacked obeyed mechanically. Garry had evidently heard of his being downstairs and had some instructions to give, or some further confession to make. He would save him now from that humiliation; he would get his arms around him, as Corinne had done, and tell him he was still his friend and what he yet intended to do to pull him through, and that nothing which he had done had wrecked his affection for him. As these thoughts rushed over him his pace quickened, mounting the stairs two steps at a time so that he might save his friend even a moment of additional suffering. The doctor touched Jack on the shoulder, made a sign for him to moderate his steps, and the two moved to where his patient lay. Garry was on the bed, outside the covering, when they entered. He was lying on his back, his head and neck flat on a pillow, one foot resting on the floor. He was in his trousers and shirt; his coat and waistcoat lay where he had thrown them. “Garry,” began Jack in a low voice--“I just ran in to say that--” The sick man did not move. Jack stopped, and turned his head to the doctor. “Asleep?” he whispered. “No;--drugged. That's why I wanted you to see him before I called his wife. Is he accustomed to this sort of thing?” and he picked up a bottle from the table. Jack took the phial in his hand; it was quite small, and had a glass stopper. “What is it, doctor?” “I don't know. Some preparation of chloral, I should think; smells and looks like it. I'll take it home and find out. If he's been taking this right along he may know how much he can stand, but if he's experimenting with it, he'll wake up some fine morning in the next world. What do you know about it?” “Only what I have heard Mrs. Minott say,” Jack whispered behind his hand. “He can't sleep without it, she told me. He's been under a terrible business strain lately and couldn't stand the pressure, I expect.”