Doc Madison re-entered the room, closed the door, dispassionately
arranged a disordered cuff, brushed a few particles of dust from his
sleeves and shoulder, and, this done, started toward the table--and
stopped.

Helena had swung herself to the table edge, and, glass in hand, dangling
her neatly shod little feet, was smoking a cigarette, her brown hair
with a glint of amber in it, her dark eyes veiled now by their heavy
lashes; on the other side of the table Pale Face Harry coughed, as, with
sleeve rolled back, he was intent on the hypodermic needle he was
pushing into his arm; while the Flopper, his eyes with a dog-like
admiration in them fixed on Madison, stood facing the door, a grotesque,
unpleasant figure, unkempt, unshaven, furtive-faced, his rags hanging
disreputably about him, his trousers with their frayed edges, now that
he stood upright, reaching far above his boot tops and flagrantly
exposing his wretched substitutes for socks.

Doc Madison reached thoughtfully into his pocket, brought out a silver
cigarette case, and carefully selected a cigarette from amongst its
fellows.

"Yes; Cleggy was right," he said softly, tapping the end of the
cigarette on his thumb nail. "You're the real thing--the real, real
thing."




--II--