looking for Meyan that you have made all this disturbance?” the woman broke in. “Then why didn’t you ask? For now he is at the saloon, I think, only across the street.”

“Then we will go there at once,” said Trant. “But I will ask you”—he turned to the elder Edwards—“to wait for us at the motor, for two of us will be enough for my purpose, and more than two may defeat it by alarming Meyan.”

Trant descended the stairs, took his instrument case from the motor, and with young Edwards crossed the street quickly to the saloon.

CHAPTER III. THE CLEVER PENCIL.

A dozen idlers leaned against the bar or sat in chairs tilted against the wall. Trant examined these idlers one after another closely. The only man at whom he did not seem to look was one who, as the only red-headed man in the place, must plainly be Meyan. “Red-headed” was the only description they had of him, but meager as it was, with the landlady’s statement that he was in the saloon, Trant resolved to test him.

The psychologist took an envelope from his pocket and wrote rapidly upon the back of it. “I am going to try something,” he whispered, as he flicked the envelope along the bar to Edwards. “It may not succeed, but if I am able to get Meyan into a test, then go into that back room and speak aloud what I have written on the envelope, as if you had just come in with somebody.” Then, as Edwards nodded his comprehension, the psychologist turned easily to the man nearest him at the bar—a pallid Lithuanian sweatshop worker.

“I suppose you can stand a lot of that?” Trant nodded at the glass of pungent whisky. “Still—it has its effect on you. Sends your heart action up—quickens your pulse.”

“What are you?” asked the man, grinning. “Temperance lecturer?”

“Something like that,” the psychologist answered. “At least, I can show you the effect whisky has upon your heart.”

He picked up the instrument case and opened it. The loungers gathered about him, and Trant saw with satisfaction that they thought him an itinerant temperance advocate. They stared curiously at the instrument he had taken from its case.

“It goes on the arm,” he explained. The Lithuanian, with a grin toward his companions, began to turn up his sleeve. “Not you,” Trant said; “you just had a drink.”

“Is there a drink in this? I ain’t had a 

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