of it smote him with a strange sense of familiarity. It was as though he
had just returned from a long journey. He looked across the table at his
partner. Matt was watching him and smiling. An expression of horror
spread over Jim's face.

"My God, Matt!" he screamed. "You ain't doped me?"

Matt smiled and continued to watch him. In the paroxysm that followed, Jim
did not become unconscious. His muscles tensed and twitched and knotted,
hurting him and crushing him in their savage grip. And in the midst of it
all, it came to him that Matt was acting queerly. He was travelling the
same road. The smile had gone from his face, and there was on it an intent
expression, as if he were listening to some inner tale of himself and
trying to divine the message. Matt got up and walked across the room and
back again, then sat down.

"You did this, Jim," he said quietly.

"But I didn't think you'd try to fix ME," Jim answered reproachfully.

"Oh, I fixed you all right," Matt said, with teeth close together and
shivering body. "What did you give me?"

"Strychnine."

"Same as I gave you," Matt volunteered. "It's a hell of a mess, ain't it?"

"You're lyin', Matt," Jim pleaded. "You ain't doped me, have you?"

"I sure did, Jim; an' I didn't overdose you, neither. I cooked it in as