“Now,”—­the rotund voice sunk into the confidential, sympathetic register, yet with a tone of saddened rebuke,—­“there are topics that the lips shrink from when ladies are present.  But I have a word for you young men.  Young blood!  Ah, young blood, and the fire of life!  For that we pay a penalty.  Yet we must not overpay the debt.  To such as wish my private advice—­private, I say, and sacredly confidential—­” He broke off and leaned out over the railing.  “Thousands have lived to bless the name of Professor Certain, and his friendship, at such a crisis; thousands, my friends.  To such, I shall be available for consultation from nine to twelve to-morrow, at the Moscow Hotel.  Remember the time and place.  Men only.  Nine to twelve.  And all under the inviolable seal of my profession.”

Some quality of unexpressed insistence in the stranger—­or was it the speaker’s own uneasiness of spirit?—­brought back the roving, brilliant eyes to the square face below.

“A little blackmail on the side, eh?”

The words were spoken low, but with a peculiar, abrupt crispness.  This, then, was direct challenge.  Professor Certain tautened.  Should he accept it, or was it safer to ignore this pestilent disturber?  Craft and anger thrust opposing counsels upon him.  But determination of the issue came from outside.

“Lemme through.”

From the outskirts of the crowd a rawboned giant forced his way inward.  He was gaunt and unkempt as a weed in winter.

“Here’s trouble,” remarked a man at the front.  “Allus comes with a Hardscrabbler.”

“What’s a Hardscrabbler?” queried the well-dressed man.

“Feller from the Hardscrabble Settlement over on Corsica Lake.  Tough lot, they are.  Make their own laws, when they want any; run their place to suit themselves.  Ain’t much they ain’t up to.  Hoss-stealin’, barn-burnin’, boot-leggin’, an’ murder thrown in when—­”

“Be you the doctor was to Corsica Village two years ago?” The newcomer’s high, droning voice cut short the explanation.

“I was there, my friend.  Testimonials and letters from some of your leading citizens attest the work—­”

“You give my woman morpheean.”  There was a hideous edged intonation in the word, like the whine of some plaintive and dangerous animal.

“My friend!” The Professor’s hand went forth in repressive deprecation.  “We physicians give what seems to us best, in these cases.”

“A reg’lar doctor from Burnham seen her,” pursued the Hardscrabbler, in the same thin wail, moving nearer, but not again raising his eyes to the other’s face.  Instead, his gaze seemed fixed upon the man’s shining expanse of waistcoat.  “He said you doped her with the morpheean you give her.”

“So your chickens come home to roost, Professor,” said the stranger, in a half-voice.

“Impossible,” declared the Professor, addressing the Hardscrabbler.  “You misunderstood him.”