A dozen yards from the wheel-chair stood Madison, riveted to the spot,
motionless save for a nervous twitching of the lips, his eyes, now upon
the invalid who walked about, now on the little lad who had thrown away
his crutch. Some one plucked at his sleeve, but Madison gave no
heed--again his arm was pulled, and he turned to look into Pale Face
Harry's face. The other's countenance was gray, the eyes full of a
shrinking, terrified light.

"Doc, for God's sake, Doc, what's it mean?" whispered Pale Face Harry
shakily, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. "Doc, this ain't no
bunk--there's something in it."

The words seemed to rouse Madison--to leadership. He stared at Pale Face
Harry for a moment, then a grim smile flickered across his face.

"Something in it!" he repeated with an ironic laugh--and suddenly
grabbed Pale Face Harry's arm and shook him. "There's so much in it that
I'm drunk with it, crazy with it--but I'm trying to make myself believe
it isn't too good to be true. Get that? Get a grip on that, and hang on.
Don't lose your nerve, Harry!"

"I guess I ain't much worse than you," mumbled Pale Face Harry. "You're
whiter than a sheet."

"You're right," admitted Madison frankly. "I'm queer, but I'm coming
around. Helena seems to be the only one who never lost her grip--she's
got the Patriarch and the Flopper out of the way and under cover. Brace
up, Harry--what I thought we'd get in the Roost that night is
counterfeit money to what'll come from this." His eyes fastened on a