“You told me that Tag took a drug from one of your vials,” Dick murmured, smiling.

“So he did,” nodded the doctor.  “Money is a drug in the market—–­in some places.”

“What kind of places, sir?” Prescott inquired.

“Such places as the United States Treasury, for instance,” laughed Dr. Bentley.  “Or the National City Bank of New York.”

Then turning to Mr. Page, the physician completed his explanation.

“Money is a strange thing perhaps, Mr. Page, to carry in a vial in a doctor’s drug case.  But sometimes, when I’ve been on the road, and a long way from home on the day’s work, I’ve found that I needed money just when I least expected to want it.  So, for some years, I’ve always had two twenty dollar bills tucked away in an opaque vial, where it would not be seen and invite theft.  I never told anyone what I carried in that vial.”

What Dr. Bentley did not explain, however, was that, generally, when he wanted extra money, it was for some charitable work the need of which became apparent when he was visiting the sick and needy.  The generous physician had many “free patients.”

Some two hours later, Tag, his father, Hibbert, Colquitt and Valden started for the county jail in the big Page car.  On the way they stopped at the home of Farmer Leigh, to which Dr. Bentley had gone ahead of them.

“Mr. Leigh is conscious and able to be seen,” the physician reported to Detective Colquitt.  “Bring your prisoner inside at once.”

Then there came a dramatic surprise.  Farmer Leigh, when confronted by Tag, positively denied that Tag was the one who had assaulted him.  Mr. Leigh, it will be remembered, was a newcomer in the neighborhood.  He had never known Tag, but, after his injury, and before brain fever came on, the farmer had described his assailant, and that description had seemed to fit Tag Mosher to a dot.  The real criminal, however, a young tramp some years older than Tag, was found later on, and punished according to law.

Dick Prescott was the only one of the high school boys on hand to see the clearing of Tag of the accusation against him.  Dick had come along in Dr. Bentley’s car.

“Prescott,” whispered the physician, “slip downstairs.  You’ll find my car all ready.  All you need to do is to press the starting button.  Drive over to Porterville and get Mr. James, the district attorney.  Never mind if you have to drag him out of bed and thrash him into submission—–­bring him here as quickly as possible.  Don’t fail, you understand.”

With heart beating rapidly, but feeling wholly happy, young Prescott slipped downstairs and out of the house.  A few moments later he was speeding over the lonely country road.  At one o’clock in the morning he came back with District Attorney James, who heard Farmer Leigh’s statement, reduced it to writing and had it signed under oath before many witnesses.

“Officer Valden,” said the district attorney, “I authorize you to take your prisoner to Porterville, not to the jail, but to the Granite Hotel.  As soon as court opens in the morning I will secure the formal discharge of your prisoner.”