"Sure thing."
"What needle?"
"The syringe."
"What are you driving at?"
"Don't you know?"
"I'm blessed if I do!"
"She is a morphine fiend."
"What?"
"Dead right. Injects it into her arm with a syringe. You know well enough there's something the matter with her. Her pale face, the dark rings round her eyes, her queer actions—all indicate something ails her. She had to have the stuff, and Merriwell forked over to her, that's all."