on. For two
days Dr. Ferris hardly left his friend's side; on the morning of the
third day, quite worn out, his jumping nerves soothed by a small dose of
morphine, he called a taxicab, gave Barbara's number in McBurney Place,
leaned back against the leather cushions, relaxed his muscles, and
fell asleep.

The taxicab and the legless man reached the curb in front of Barbara's
studio at the same moment. The driver of the cab lifted one finger to
his hat. The legless man nodded, and peering into the cab recognized
the handsome features of the sleeping doctor. He smiled, and said to
the driver:

"Take him back to his house."

The driver said: "If I do he'll enter a complaint."

"No," said the legless man; "you will tell him when he wakes that he
gave you the order himself. He won't know whether he did or
not. So-long."

The driver once more lifted one finger to his hat and obediently drove
off.

It was very silent in McBurney Place; the double row of ancient stables
made over into studio-buildings appeared deserted. The legless man could
not but flatter himself that his actions had been unobserved. He
chuckled, and with even more than his usual deft alacrity climbed the
stairs to Barbara's studio.

Meanwhile, however, a young man and a small boy, looking through the
curtains of the latter's bedroom window, had been witnesses of all
that passed.

"That was Miss Barbara's father in the taxi," said Harry West.

"Looks like he'd been out all night," said Bubbles.

"He may have been drugged."

"Doubt it. The taxi turned north at the corner. If the ole 'un had had
the doctor drugged o' purpose he'd 'a' sent him south where he could use
him. I guess he's sent him home."

"He doesn't want his morning with Miss Barbara interrupted."

Harry West sighed and said: "I don't smoke, Bub. Give me a cigarette."

Bubbles accommodated his friend with eagerness.

"And now," said West, "the road's clear to Marrow Lane; better slip down
and see if Rose has any word for us. I'll keep a good ear on Blizzard."

Bubbles changed from his buttons to his street-jacket, and departed by
the back stairs. Harry West took a small automatic pistol from his
breast pocket and played with it, but in the expression of the young
man's face was nothing bellicose or threatening; only a kind of gentle,
patient misery.

He passed fifteen minutes in taking quick aims with the little automatic
pistol at the roses on the wall-paper. Short of actua