All night long, when he slept at all, Billy Piper played poker in his dreams, tossing and muttering and clawing at the bedding with his hands. But there were several protracted periods in those dark hours when he lay awake, thinking wretchedly of the almost tragic end of that game in Osgood’s rooms. Never had he spent a worse night, and when the gray light of “the morning after” came stealing in at his bedroom window he prayed sincerely that he might never experience another like it.

Dawn brought him some relief from those distressing dreams and haunting visions of Hooker’s prone, coatless figure and ghastly face; and, utterly worn out, he finally sank into a heavy doze. From this he was awakened by the sound of his mother’s voice calling that it was time for him to get up if he wished any breakfast.

Her call had startled him and caused him to jerk himself partly upright in bed, where he remained propped upon his elbow as he answered that he would be down directly. This start had caused a throbbing in his temples, and after a bit he dropped back on the pillow, huskily muttering:

“What a night—what a horrible night!”

Lying there, he somewhat reluctantly reviewed the events of the previous evening, and as he thought it all over he regretted most heartily that curiosity and a desire to delve into the private doings of others had led him to become a member of that card party. For the first time he fully realized that the person who attempts to pry into the affairs of others without authority or a sufficiently good reason almost invariably brings upon himself no end of trouble and is sure in time to be regarded as a spy, a meddler and a nuisance. His eyes were opened at last to the real reason for the aversion with which his former friends and chums had seemed to regard him of late.

“This being a detective isn’t half as fine as it seems in stories,” he muttered; “and, anyhow, I don’t believe I was ever cut out for one. I’ve made a mistake. I’m too sensitive, too conscientious. My feelings are too easily stirred for me ever to make a success in that line. I’m going to quit it. Perhaps I can write stories, and I’m sure I’d like that better. They say an experienced crook often makes the most efficient detective, and I despise crooks. I’m done with the game.”

That final word, although he had been thinking of something else, again brought vividly to his mental view a picture of the green-covered table bearing chips and cards and the young players sitting around it engaged in what they chose to call “a little friendly game.” A few short hours before this had seemed to him all very fine and sporty, and it had attracted him as the magnet attracts the steel. Now, in the somber light of a dull spring Sabbath morning, the glamour was swept away, leaving only a bitter after-taste that was remorse.

They had said that they were playing penny poker with a ten-cent limit simply to make the game interesting; but as he recalled their intentness upon the run of the play, the ill-concealed bitterness with which some of them accepted defeat, and their greedy, eager joy in winning, the truth smote him hard and convincingly. They had been gambling! The reason why they chose to play so small a game lay in the limited condition of their finances. Had they all possessed more money, penny-ante with a dime limit would have seemed tame and unsatisfactory, and therefore games of this sort were but the first steps to something bigger and worse.

“Ned Osgood started it here in this town,” thought Piper. “He’s naturally a fine fellow, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. I was not the only one who couldn’t afford to play, putting aside the question of its being real gambling. In that whole bunch Osgood was the only one who really could afford it, and he was a winner.”

At that time Sleuth did not know that in ninety-nine genuine gambling games out of a hundred the majority of the players cannot, from financial reasons alone, afford to participate. If not openly, they take part in such games with the secret hope that they will come forth winners, and one of the bad features of it all is the fact that their winnings, when made, seldom do them any real, substantial good; for money easily acquired is rarely rated at its real value and is almost as elusive as quicksilver. The winning gambler regards his gains as “velvet,” forgetting his losses of yesterday and disregarding the assured certainty that he must lose again to-morrow or at some future time. He spends freely and foolishly, making doubly certain the time of deprivation and need which must come in future reverses.

The faint clatter of dishes, coming up from the dining-room, roused Sleuth from his unpleasant reveries, and, with a strange feeling of lassitude and weariness in his limbs, he dragged himself out of bed. The night had exacted its penalty in physical enervation as well as mental torment.

“No more,” he kept repeating—“no more of it for me.”

Breakfast over, he was drawn by an intense desire, not unmingled with dread, to learn something of Roy Hooker’s condition. Not a word had Roy spoken after that blow, and Piper was haunted by the memory of the dazed, uncomprehending look in the boy’s eyes.

“He’s probably all right now,” Sleuth told himself; but he could not dismiss the fear that Roy might not be all right.

Thus worried, he found an early opportunity of getting away from the house, his footsteps leading him toward Hooker’s home. The streets of the village bore the deserted appearance usual upon Sunday morning, but to him they seemed ominously silent and lonely. The early church bells began to ring, but the sound was hateful, for it seemed to add to that oppressive loneliness.

On the corner of Main and Middle streets, a block from where Hooker lived, he met Phil Springer, and a single glance told him that here was a companion in misery. For Springer also appeared downcast and troubled, and there was in his eyes an expression that told of sleep denied.

“Huh-hello, Sleuthy,” faltered Phil. “What bub-brings you out so early?”

“Same thing that brought you out, I guess. Heard anything from Roy?”

“Not a word. You?”

“No; just came from home.”

“You took your chance to skin out and leave him on our hands, dud-didn’t you?” said Phil resentfully. “Cooper just mum-made me stick by till we got him home.”

“That was a mean trick of mine,” admitted Piper instantly. “I’m sorry I did it, but I was nervous and excited, and I didn’t stop to think. How was he? How did he appear? Did he talk any?”

“Not a word. Couldn’t seem to gug-get any sense into him. Why, Pipe, he actually acted as if he didn’t know wh-where he lived. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know what to think of it. I don’t like to think of it. What did you do? How did you get him into the house?”

“We took him to the door; it was locked. I pounded until we saw a light through the glass and heard some one coming. Then, like the two cheap sus-sus-skates we were, we up and dusted—ran away.” Springer was not inclined to spare himself.

Suddenly Sleuth made a grab at his companion’s arm. “Look! Here comes Dr. Grindle now! I’ll bet he’s been to see Roy! Let’s ask him.”

“Yu-yu-you ask,” gurgled Phil, getting pale around the mouth. “It would tut-tut-take me tut-tut-too long.”

Medicine-case in hand, the doctor approached, and, assuming as far as possible a natural air, Piper bade him good morning and inquired if there was some one ill “over that way.”

“Singular case,” said the physician, pausing a moment and regarding the two boys keenly. “It’s Roy Hooker. He came home rather late last night and seemed to be dazed and stunned. There’s a bruise on his cheek and another bad one upon the back of his head. His folks got him to bed, thinking he’d be all right, although his mother was frightened and worried. This morning when they tried to question him he wouldn’t talk. Then they ’phoned for me.”

“Roy Hooker?” exclaimed Piper, making a pretense of astonishment, which, however, gave him a throb of self-scorn. “Why, what do you suppose happened to him, doctor?”

“He may have been in a fight, or perhaps he was hurt some other way. I don’t know, but I feel sure one or more persons, probably his intimate friends or companions, must know. Unless he recovers soon and settles it himself, they will be called on to come forward and speak up.”

Springer found it impossible to keep still. “Cuc-couldn’t he say anything at all, doctor?”

“Just two words were all I’ve been able to draw from him, and they seem to cast no light whatever upon the matter. I decided it was not best to try to press him further in his present condition.”

“Two words!” muttered Phil.

“Yes, if I understood correctly, he said, ‘two spades.’ Now what connection with his condition two spades can have I don’t understand, unless one of those bruises upon his head may have been inflicted by such an implement. The bruise on his cheek, I’m sure, was not made in such a manner; and, considering the fact that the one on the back of his head is low down toward the base of the skull, I’m wholly disinclined to believe it was inflicted by anything resembling a spade. Are you boys particular friends of Roy?”

“Oh, not—not particular friends; at least, I’m not,” Sleuth hastened to reply. “For some reason, he hasn’t seemed to like me very well.”

“Then you can’t throw any light on this odd affair? You weren’t with him last evening?”

“I saw him at the pup-post-office a-bub-bout half past seven,” faltered Phil huskily.

“And you didn’t see him after that?”

“I don’t—remember. I don’t th-think so.”

“How about you, Billy? Did you see him later in the evening?”

“I wasn’t at the post-office,” said Piper, finding it impossible to meet the doctor’s steady eyes. “I didn’t see Hooker there.”

“Nor anywhere else?” persisted the physician.

“Nor—anywhere—else.”

“Well, he must have been with some one nearly three hours later, and we’ll find out who it was when he gets able to talk, if not sooner.” The doctor glanced at his watch. “If you hear anything, let me know.”

When Dr. Grindle was gone Piper and Springer stood there, looking anywhere but at each other. Presently, however, their eyes met, and then, with the bitterest self-contempt, Billy muttered:

“Two miserable liars, that’s what we are!”