lips. Twice he tried to speak--and only succeeded in mumbling
inarticulately.

Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and, standing over the
crouched figure in the chair, tapped with his finger on the hypodermic
in Smarlinghue's hands.

"And that ain't all," he announced with a malicious grin. "You come in
and play the game with me, or I'll fix it so that you'll never get
another squirt of dope if you had a million bucks to buy it with--ah, I
thought that would get you!"

Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face.

"No! No! My God--no--not that! You--you wouldn't do that!" He reached
out his arms to the other.

"You know--I've gone too far to do without it. If I didn't have it, I--"

"I've seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams," said Clancy
malevolently. "You can't tell me anything about it. If you appreciate
it, that's enough--it's up to you. You heard what I said. If you're
looking for that particular kind of hell, go to it. Only don't kid
yourself. When I pass the word to put the screws on, the lid's down for
keeps. Well, what's the answer? Coming across? Quick now! I haven't got
all night to spend here!"

Smarlinghue's hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair
in a pitiful, uncertain way.