In a few minutes I was able to stand and walk stiffly into my bedroom where Howlett had a hot bath ready and a hotter tumbler of Scotch¹. Pierpont sponged the blood from my throat where it had coagulated. The cut was slight, almost invisible, a mere² puncture³ from a thorn. A shampoo cleaned my mind, and a cold plunge⁴ and alcohol friction⁵ did the rest.

“Now,” said Pierpont, “swallow your hot Scotch and lie down. Do you want a broiled⁶ woodcock? Good, I fancy you are coming about.”

Barris and Pierpont watched me as I sat on the edge of the bed, solemnly chewing on the woodcock’s wishbone and sipping⁷ my Bordeaux, very much at my ease.

Pierpont sighed his relief.

“So,” he said pleasantly, “it was a mere case of ten dollars or ten days. I thought you had been stabbed —”

“I was not intoxicated,” I replied, serenely⁸ picking up a bit of celery.

“Only jagged?” enquired⁹ Pierpont, full of sympathy.

“Nonsense,” said Barris, “let him alone. Want some more celery, Roy? — it will make you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I answered; “when are you and Pierpont going to catch your gold-maker¹⁰?”

Barris looked at his watch and closed it with a snap.

“In an hour; you don’t propose to go with us?”

“But I do — toss me a cup of coffee, Pierpont, will you — that’s just what I propose to do. Howlett, bring the new box of Panatellas — the mild imported; — and leave the decanter. Now Barris, I’ll be

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