now that I'm living. I've been buried alive. Honest!"

"I always thought there was something back of your absent treatment.
What was it?" Drake hitched his chair nearer and focused all his powers
of concentration. "What was it, kid? Out with it. And if I can be of any
help you know you have only to put it there." He held out a large hand.

And then slowly, haltingly, but lucidly, dispassionately, events
following in sequence, Garrison told everything; concealing nothing.
Nor did he try to gloss over or strive to nullify his own dishonorable
actions. He told everything, and the turfman, chin in hand, eyes riveted
on the narrator, listened absorbed.

"Gee!" Jimmie Drake whispered at last, "it sounds like a fairy-story. It
don't sound real." Then he suddenly crashed a fist into his open palm.
"I see, I see," he snapped, striving to control his excitement. "Then
you don't know. You can't know."

"Know what?" Garrison sat bolt upright in his narrow cot, his heart
pounding.

"Why--why about Crimmins, about Waterbury, about Sis--everything,"
exclaimed Drake. "It was all in the Eastern papers. You were in Bellevue
then. I thought you knew. Don't you know, kid, that it was proven that
Crimmins poisoned Sis? Hold on, keep quiet. Yes, it was Crimmins. Now,
don't get excited. Yes, I'll tell you all. Give me time. Why, kid, you
were as clean as the wind that dried your first shirt. Sure, sure. We
all knew it--then. And we thought you did--"

"Tell me, tell me." Garrison's lip was quivering; his face gray with