the wreck in his slums, and had driven him relentlessly that he might find peace in the service of others.  Slowly the man won back to sanity.  One obsession persisted, however, disturbing to the clergyman.  Veltman was willing to do penance himself, in any possible way, but he insisted that, since the Surtaines shared his guilt, they, too, must make amends, before his dead mistress could rest in her grave.  Apprised by Veltman of the whole wretched story, Hale secretly sympathized with this view of the Surtaines’ responsibility.  But he was concerned lest, in Veltman, it take some form of direct vengeance.  When he learned that Veltman had returned to the “Clarion” composing-room to work, the minister, unable to spare time for a call from his almost sleepless activities, sent an urgent request to Hal to meet him at the Recreation Club.  Hal being out, Ellis got the note, observed the “Immediate and Important” on the envelope, read the contents, and set out for the rendezvous.

He never got there.  For at the corner of Sperry Street he was met by a messenger who knew him.

“The back room at McManey’s,” said the urchin.  “He’s in there, waitin’.”

Ellis entered the place.  At a table sat the Reverend Norman Hale, with an expression of radiant happiness on his gaunt face.  The barkeeper, who, on his own initiative, had just brought in a steaming hot drink, stood watching him with unfeigned concern.  Hale welcomed Ellis warmly, and drew a chair close for him.

“You sent for Mr. Surtaine,” said Ellis.

“Did I?” asked the other vaguely.  “I forget.  It doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters, now.  Ellis, I’ve found out the secret.”

“What secret?”

“The great secret.  The solution,” replied the young minister, buoyantly.  “All that is necessary is to get the bodies.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed the other, with rising uneasiness.  “But they smuggle them out as fast—­”

“They won’t when I’ve told them.  McGuire Ellis,”—­he gripped his companion suddenly with fingers that clamped like a burning vise,—­“I can bring the dead back to life.”

“Tell me about it.  But take a swallow of this first.”  Ellis pushed the hot drink toward him.  “You’re cold.”

“Nothing but excitement.  The glory of it!  All this suffering and grief and death—­”

“Wait a minute.  I want a drink myself.”

He turned to the bartender.  “Get an auto,” he whispered.  “Quick!”

“There’s a rig outside,” said the man.  “I seen he was sick when he came in, so I sent for it.”

“Good man!” said Ellis.  “Telephone to Dr. Merritt at the Health Office to meet me instantly at the hospital.  Tell him why.  Now, Mr. Hale,” he added, “come on.  Let’s get along.  You can tell me on the way.”

Still rapt with his vision the minister rose, and permitted himself to be guided to the carriage.  Once inside he fell into a semi-stupor.  Only at the hospital, where Dr. Merritt was waiting to see him safe within the isolation ward, did he come to his rightful senses, cool, and, as ever, thoughtful of everything but himself.