At nine, when our nerves had been strained to breaking-point, Ajax and a big-bearded stranger galloped up to Greiffenhagen's house.
"It's Doc. Elkins, of San Lorenzy," said a hired man.
"The boys are sinking!" sobbed Mrs. Greiffenhagen. "Where is the Professor?"
"I left him in San Lorenzo."
Elkins and Ajax rushed upstairs and into the Greiffenhagen bedroom. Elkins glanced at Pete, felt his pulse, and then said deliberately--
"My man, you're dying of sheer funk! You've poisoned yourself with nothing more deadly than good Kentucky whisky! In six hours you'll be perfectly well again."
Pete heard, and pulled himself together. It struck him that this was not the first time that he had felt nearly dead after imbibing much whisky.
"But the Perfessor?" he asked feebly.
"Professor Adam Chawner," said Elkins in a clear voice, "is in a strait-waistcoat at the County Hospital. He will get over this, but not so quickly as you will. He is quite mad for the moment about a deadly microbe which only exists in his imagination."
The partitions in most Californian houses are indecently thin. As Elkins's voice died away--and Pete said afterwards it was like a strain of heavenly music--a feeble cheer was heard from the chamber usually occupied by Miss Mary Willing.