"Not much." Wallace drew out a leather wallet from an inside pocket and produced a prescription. "The druggist refused to fill this again; said I had to get another prescription. Beastly rot," he complained. "Cost me a bad night." The surgeon ran his eye over the prescription before pocketing it. "It's a narcotic," he explained. "The druggists are not allowed to refill. Next time you want one come to me. How long is it since you left Walter Reed Hospital, Leigh?" "Two months ago," was the laconic rejoinder. Wallace removed his hat and passed his hand over his short-clipped hair. "I hope to report for duty soon." "Good!" McLean slowed down to make the turn from Twenty-first Street into Massachusetts Avenue and as they drove westward Major Wallace for the first time took notice of the direction in which they were heading and that they were no longer on Connecticut Avenue. "Aren't you going to your office, McLean?" he inquired. "Not immediately. I have a professional call to make first. Are you in a hurry?" The question seemed superfluous and McLean smiled as he put it. The major's apathetic manner and relaxed figure could not be associated with haste. "No," Wallace answered. "I promised to stop in and see Charles Craige some time this morning; he's attending to some legal business for me. Otherwise I have nothing to do. This killing time gets on my nerves--look at that, now," and he held up a hand that was not quite steady. "Take me on as chauffeur, McLean. I understand an engine; shell-shock hasn't knocked that out of my head." "Your head's all right, old man. I told you that when you were my patient at Walter Reed," responded McLean cheerily. "A few weeks more and--" He stopped speaking as they crossed the Q Street bridge into Georgetown, then, stepping on the accelerator, he raced the car up the steeply graded street and drew up in front of a high terrace. "Hello, are you going to 'Rose Hill'?" demanded Wallace, wakened from his lethargy by the stopping of the car. He had apparently been unaware that McLean had left his last sentence unfinished. "Who is ill?" "I don't know." McLean leaned back to pick up his instrument bag which he carried in the compartment behind his seat. "My servant called to me just as I was leaving home that I had been telephoned to come over here at once. I didn't catch all she said. I suppose Kitty Baird is ill. That girl is a bundle of nerves." Wallace clambered out of the car so that his more nimble companion would not have to climb over his long legs in getting out. As McLean turned to close the door of his car, Wallace's hand descended heavily upon his shoulder. "What--who--who's that standing in the Baird's doorway?" he gasped. "A policeman?"