“He has,” said Pocket. “I’ve got some stuff in my bag; but it’s no use taking it now. It’s meant to take in bed when you can have your sleep out.” And he was going into more elaborate details than Dr. Bompas had done, when the other doctor cut him short once more. “But why not now? You can sleep to your heart’s content in that chair; nobody will come in.” Pocket shook his head. “I’m due in Welbeck Street at twelve.” “Well, I’ll wake you at quarter to, and have a taxi ready at the door. That will give you a good two hours.” Pocket hesitated, remembering the blessed instantaneous effect of the first bottle under the bush. “Would you promise to wake me, sir? You’re not going out?” “I shall be in again.” “Then it is a promise?” Pocket would have liked it in black and white. “Certainly, my young fellow! Is the stuff in your bag?” It was, and the boy took it with much the same results as overnight. It tasted sweeter and acted quicker; that was the only difference. The skin seemed to tighten on his face. His fingers tingled at the ends It was not at all an unpleasant sensation, especially as the labour in his breast came to an end as if by magic. The faintly foreign accents of Dr. Baumgartner sounded unduly distant in his last words from the open door. It was scarcely shut before the morning’s troubles ceased deliciously in the cosy chair. Yet they seemed to begin again directly, and this was a horrid crop! Of course he was back in Hyde Park; but the sky must have rained red paint in his absence, or else the earth was red-hot and the sky reflected it. No! the grass was too wet for that. It might have been wet with blood. Everything was as red as beet-root, as wet and red and one’s body weltering in it like the slain! Reddest of all was the old photographer, who turned into Mr. Spearman in cap and gown, who turned into various members of the Upton family, one making more inconsequent remarks than the other, touching wildly on photography and the flitting soul, and between them working the mad race up to such a pace and pitch that Pocket woke with a dreadful start to find Dr. Baumgartner standing over him once more in the perfectly pallid flesh. “I’ve had a beast of a dream!” said Pocket, waking thoroughly. “I’m in a cold perspiration, and I thought it was cold blood! What time is it?” “A quarter to six,” said the doctor, who had invited the question by taking out his watch. “A quarter to twelve, you mean!” “No—six.” And the boy was shown the dial, but would not believe it until he had gaped at his own watch, which had stopped at half-past three. Then he bounded to his feet in a puerile passion, and there lay the little garden, a lake of sunlight as he remembered it, swallowed up entirely in the shadow of the house. “You promised to wake me!” gasped Pocket, almost speechless. “You’ve broken your word, sir!” “Only in your own interest,” replied the other calmly.