"I don't believe ye'd better have any of this, Danny, lad," declared
Owen, with a grin.
"Don't want any," responded Jaggers, in a rather sulky voice.
Dan got up and strolled about, his hands in his pockets, whistling softly but cheerily. Josh Owen finished his unwise beverage, and tossed the bottle a few feet away. Presently the man's eyes closed, but he opened them as though with an effort.
"S'here, Danny," he demanded, thickly, drowsily, "watcher put in that stuff?"
Dan Joggers did not reply, but he turned to watch his uncle, a look of the lowest cunning in the young bully's eyes. For a brief space of time Owen fought against his drowsiness. Then he lurched, falling over on one side, unconscious—drugged.
In a twinkling, then, Dan Jaggers knelt beside his uncle, rifling the other man's pockets until he had brought to light both their shares in the evil-doing of the night.
CHAPTER VIII
A SWIFT STROKE FOR HONOR
For the space of a few moments Dan Jaggers stared at the money clutched in his hands in a way that betrayed the extent of its fascinating hold upon his mind.
Then he glanced down at his unconscious uncle.