“Professor—Professor Barrington!” he called loudly. “Wake up! What does this mean?”
Frank eyed the proprietor of the place suspiciously as his friend stirred, mumbled some meaningless words and sank further down in the chair.
“Why, he’s asleep, as you see,” retorted the man, indifferently.
“How long has he been here?” inquired Frank, both suspicious and alarmed now.
“He came here about three o’clock this afternoon and asked if a man named Bissell was here. I told him no; but that a man had been here an hour before who said that if anybody inquired for a Mr. Bissell, he was to wait. So this man took a seat, as you see. In a little while the first fellow came in again. He talked with this one here. Then he ordered two glasses of lemonade. Then he came out. He said the old man was asleep, that some friends would call for him, but to let him sleep until they came. He gave me a dollar for the privilege. That’s all I know about it.”
Frank doubted this. The speaker had a bad face and looked sneaking and untruthful. More than ever did Frank distrust the man. He was satisfied from the professor’s condition that something to make him drowsy had been mixed with the lemonade.
“I think I see it all,” mused Frank, succeeding in getting his friend to his feet. He led him to the street, where the fresh air began to revive him.
“Eh? Ah! Why, Durham, have I been asleep? No, no—I must not leave here,” he resisted, as Frank strove to move him along. “I must wait for a friend.”
“You have waited for him for over four hours already, Professor,” observed Frank, “and he has not come, nor will he come——”
“But I received a telephone message from Mr. Bissell.”