Janin got actually feebler as he progressed. He stopped, gasping, his sightless face congested. “I'll have to take a little,” he whispered, “just a taste. That puts life in me; it needs a good deal now to send me off.” He produced the familiar bottle and absorbed some powder. Its effect was unexpected--he straightened, walked with more ease; but it acted upon his mind with surprising force. “I want to stop just a little,” he proclaimed with such an air of decision that Harry Baggs followed him without protest to the fragrant bank. “You're a good fellow,” Janin went on, seated; “and you're going to be a great artist. It'll take you among the best. But you will have a hard time for a while; you won't want anybody hanging on you. I'd only hurt your chances--a dirty old man, a drugtaker. I would go back to it, Harry; it's got me, like you said. People wouldn't have me round. I doubt if I'd be comfortable with them. They'd ask me why I wasn't Director.” “Come on,” Baggs repeated for the third time; “it's getting late.” He lifted French Janin to his feet and forced him on. “You don't know life,” the other continued. “You would get sick of me; you might get influenced to put me in a Home. I couldn't get my breath right there.” Harry Baggs forced him over the road, half conscious of the protesting words. The fear within him increased. Perhaps they wouldn't even listen to him; they might not be there. His grip tightened on French Janin; he knew that at the first opportunity the old man would sink back into the oblivion of morphia. “I've done all I could for you, Harry”--the other whimpered. “I've been some--good. Janin was the first to encourage you; don't expect too much.” “If I get anywhere, you did it,” Harry Baggs told him. “I'd like to see it all,” French Janin said. “I know it so well. Who'd have thought”--a dull amazement crept into his voice--“that old Janin, the sot, did it?... And you'll remember.” They stopped opposite the entrance to the place they sought. Harry Baggs saw people on the porch; he recognized a man's voice that he had heard there before. On the right of the drive a thick maple tree cast a deep shadow, but beyond it a pool of clear moonlight extended to the house. He started forward, but Janin dragged him into the gloom of the maple. “Sing here,” he whispered in the boy's ear; “see, the window--_Deh vieni alla finestra_.” Harry Baggs stood at the edge of the shadow; his throat seemed to thicken, his voice expire. “No,” he protested weakly; “you must speak first.” He felt the old man shaking under his hand and a sudden desperate calm overtook him. He moved forward a little and sang the first phrase of the Serenade.