“I don’t see—­” began the charlatan.

But Hal cut him short.  “For God’s sake,” he cried in a voice which seemed to gouge its way through his straining throat, “let’s have done with lies for once.”  And he blurted out the whole story, eking out what he lacked in detail, by insistent questioning of his father.

When they came to the part about the Relief Pills, Ellis looked up with a bitter grin.

“Works out quite logically, doesn’t it?” he observed.  Then, walking over to the body, he looked down into the face, with a changed expression.  “Poor little girl!” he muttered.  “Poor little Kitty!” He whirled swiftly upon the Surtaines.  “By God, I’d like to write her story!” he cried.  The outburst was but momentary.  Instantly he was his cool, capable self again.

“You’ve had experience in this sort of thing before, I suppose?” he inquired of Dr. Surtaine.

“Yes.  No!  Whaddye mean?” blustered the quack.

“Only that you’ll know how to fix the police and the coroner.”

“No call for any fixing.”

“So all that I have to do is to handle the newspapers,” pursued the other imperturbably.  “All right.  There’ll be no more than a paragraph in any paper to-morrow.  ‘Working-Girl Drops Dead,’ or something like that.  You can sleep easy, gentlemen.”

So obvious was the taunt that Hal stared at his friend, astounded.  Upon the Doctor it made no impression.

“Say, Ellis.  Do something for me, will you?” he requested.  “Wire to Belford Couch, the Willard, Washington, to come on here by first train.”

“Couch?  Oh, that’s Certina Charley, isn’t it?  Your professional fixer?”

“Never mind what he is.  You’ll be sure to do it, won’t you?”

“No.  Do it yourself,” said Ellis curtly, and walked out without a good-night.

“Well, whaddye think of that!” spluttered Dr. Surtaine.  “That fellow’s getting the big-head.”

Hal made no reply.  He had dropped into a chair and now sat with his head between his hands.  When he raised his face it was haggard as if with famine.

“Dad, I’m going away.”

“Where?” demanded his father, startled.

“Anywhere, away from this house.”

“No wonder you’re shaken, Boyee,” said the other soothingly.  “We’ll talk about it in the morning.  After a night’s rest—­”

“In this house?  I couldn’t close my eyes for fear of what I’d see!”

“It’s been a tough business.  I’ll give you a sleeping powder.”

“No; I’ve got to think this out:  this whole business of the Relief Pills.”

Dr. Surtaine was instantly on the defensive.  “Don’t go getting any sentimental notions now, Hal.  It’s a perfectly legal business.”

“So much the worse for the law, then.”

“You talk like an anarchist!” returned his father, shocked.  “Do you want to be better than the law?”

“If the law permits murder—­I do,” said Hal, very low.