thinks he isn't. I pin my faith to Stratton." "I think you overrate your friend Stratton." "Overrate him, sir? That is impossible. I love him so well that I hope he will solve this mystery himself, unaided and alone, and that in going back to Chicago he will be smashed to pieces in a railway accident, so that we can have him here to congratulate him." CHAPTER XV. "I suppose," said Roland, "you thought for a moment I was trying to commit suicide. I think, Mr. Stratton, you will have a better opinion of me by-and-by. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you imagined I induced you to come in here to get you into a trap." "You are perfectly correct," said Stratton; "and I may say, although that was my belief, I was not in the least afraid of you, for I had you covered all the time." "Well," remarked Roland, carelessly, "I don't want to interfere with your business at all, but I wish you wouldn't cover me quite so much; that revolver of yours might go off." "Do you mean to say," said Stratton, "that there is nothing but quinine in those capsules?" "I'll tell you in a moment," as he opened them one by one. "No, there is nothing but quinine here. Thirty grains put up in five-grain capsules." George Stratton's eyes began to open. Then he slowly rose, and looked with horrified face at the doctor. "My God!" he cried; "who got the thirty grains of morphia?" "What do you mean?" asked the doctor. "Mean? Why, don't you see it? It is a chemist's mistake. Thirty grains of quinine have been sent you. Thirty grains of morphia have been sent to somebody else. Was it to William Brenton?" "By Jove!" said the doctor, "there's something in that. Say, let us go to the drug store." The two went out together, and walked to the drug store on the corner of Blank Street and Nemo Avenue.