"I'm afraid my eyes are going back on me. They're blurry now. I swear I hate to take up wearing spectacles!"
Directly he leaned his head on his hand, with his elbow on the table.
"I fear you are not feeling well, Señor Scott," said the man of the snowy hair and coal-black eyes.
"I'm not," confessed Old Gripper thickly. "Can't understand it. Never felt this way before. I'm afraid I'm going to be ill. Let's get out of here."
Already Lazaro had paid the check and tipped the waiter. They arose and started to leave the dining room. With his second step Watson Scott staggered.
In a moment his companion had him by the arm, expressing in a low tone the greatest regret and anxiety.
"I want air!" muttered Scott. "I—I'm going home. Please get my topcoat and hat for me. My check is somewhere in my pocket. Get a hansom, for that will give me a chance to breathe."
Lazaro felt in Scott's pocket and found the check, for which he obtained the man's overcoat and hat. He expressed his sorrow that this thing should happen, and, with the aid of an attendant, assisted the tottering man outside and lifted him into a hansom. Scott's wits seemed wholly muddled, for he could not give his home address; but this was not necessary, for the driver happened to know it.
The hansom turned away, and Alvarez Lazaro wheeled to reënter the hotel.
He found himself face to face with Frank Merriwell.