Otis Clymer looked down at him with some curiosity.
The man had made a pillow of his coat, in one of the pockets of which were the papers the ex-drug clerk coveted.
His gray woolen shirt, open at the throat, exposed his broad shaggy breast where it came into view beneath his heavy, unkempt brown beard.
He certainly looked like a tough customer.
Clymer had resolved to drug the man into insensibility in order to avert the possibility of a personal encounter with him.
He knelt down by his side, and gently laid the saturated handkerchief over his face.
“That’ll quiet him effectually,” said the clerk, grimly.
Then he straightened up and waited.
After sufficient time had elapsed for the drug to operate, Clymer removed the handkerchief and looked at his victim.
Once more Gideon Prawle was the picture of death.