Some quality of unexpressed insistence in the stranger--or was it the speaker's own uneasiness of spirit?--brought back the roving, brilliant eyes to the square face below. "A little blackmail on the side, eh?" The words were spoken low, but with a peculiar, abrupt crispness. This, then, was direct challenge. Professor Certain tautened. Should he accept it, or was it safer to ignore this pestilent disturber? Craft and anger thrust opposing counsels upon him. But determination of the issue came from outside. "Lemme through." From the outskirts of the crowd a rawboned giant forced his way inward. He was gaunt and unkempt as a weed in winter. "Here's trouble," remarked a man at the front. "Allus comes with a Hardscrabbler." "What's a Hardscrabbler?" queried the well-dressed man. "Feller from the Hardscrabble Settlement over on Corsica Lake. Tough lot, they are. Make their own laws, when they want any; run their place to suit themselves. Ain't much they ain't up to. Hoss-stealin', barn-burnin', boot-leggin', an' murder thrown in when--" "Be you the doctor was to Corsica Village two years ago?" The newcomer's high, droning voice cut short the explanation. "I was there, my friend. Testimonials and letters from some of your leading citizens attest the work--" "You give my woman morpheean." There was a hideous edged intonation in the word, like the whine of some plaintive and dangerous animal. "My friend!" The Professor's hand went forth in repressive deprecation. "We physicians give what seems to us best, in these cases." "A reg'lar doctor from Burnham seen her," pursued the Hardscrabbler, in the same thin wail, moving nearer, but not again raising his eyes to the other's face. Instead, his gaze seemed fixed upon the man's shining expanse of waistcoat. "He said you doped her with the morpheean you give her." "So your chickens come home to roost, Professor," said the stranger, in a half-voice. "Impossible," declared the Professor, addressing the Hardscrabbler. "You misunderstood him." "They took my woman away. They took her to the 'sylum." Foreboding peril, the people nearest the uncouth visitor had drawn away. Only the stranger held his ground; more than held it, indeed, for he edged almost imperceptibly nearer. He had noticed a fleck of red on the matted beard, where the lip had been bitten into. Also he saw that the Professor, whose gaze had so timorously shifted from his, was intent, recognizing danger; intent, and unafraid before the threat. "She used to cry fer it, my woman. Cry fer the morpheean like a baby." He sagged a step forward. "She don't haff to cry no more. She's dead."