ever, accurate measurements and a description of him
were made. Only to-day a copy of this document has been shown to me, by
a gentleman high in the secret service. And it seems that Blizzard is
differentiated from other legless men, by a mole under one arm, and by a
curious protuberance on the back of his head--and I believe that his
moral delinquency is not owing to the despair and humiliation of being a
cripple, but to skull-pressure upon the brain."

The three young surgeons looked at each other. One of them started to
voice a protest.

"But, doctor--it's--you're asking a good deal of us. I don't know that I
personally--"

Three knocks sounded quietly on a door of the room. Dr. Ferris, breaking
into a smile of relief, sprang to open it.

In the rectangle appeared Lichtenstein; he was dripping wet from head
to foot and carried in one hand a heavy blue automatic.

"'Fraid you couldn't make it," exclaimed the surgeon.

"Had to dynamite a safe down in the cellar--hear anything?"

Dr. Ferris shook his head, and turned to the others.

"Mr. Lichtenstein," he said, "of the secret service ... Lichtenstein,
some of these youngsters don't want to mix up in this. Tell
them things."

Lichtenstein smiled broadly. "Then I'll have to operate," he said. And
he lifted his pistol ostentatiously. "Young men," he went on, "if you
aren't willing to make a decent citizen of Blizzard, why I must arrest
him, and send him to the chair, or if he resists arrest, I must make a
decent dead man of him--"

In the distance there rose suddenly the powerful cries of the legless
man. "All ready," he cried, "bring on your ether."

"Who's going to help me?" asked Dr. Ferris.

The three young surgeons stepped quickly forward.

"Good," said Dr. Ferris. "He's strong as a bull. You come with me,
Jordyce, and you two wait within hearing just outside the door."

"One moment," said Lichtenstein, "where's young Allen?"

"In there," said Dr. Ferris.

"I'll just introduce myself," said the Jew, "and tell him what's up. He
must be in a most unpleasant state of mind."

To Wilmot there appeared the figure of a little stout man with red hair
and a pug nose, who was dripping wet, and who smiled in an
engaging fashion.

"You're safe as you'd be in your own house," said the kindly Jew; "no
ether--no amputation--no nothing. And here's a note from Miss Barbara.
I'm dripping wet, but I guess the ink hasn't run so's you can't
read it."

Wilmot read