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"I'll be over, Eunice. Soon as I can jump into some clothes."

"Hurry, then!"

As Jock dashed up the stairs again he had a glimpse of Ken Kennedy standing in the dining room doorway crunching crackers. . . .

He dressed with feverish haste, his mind in chaos. Brad. Could any ill have befallen Brad? Surely not, and yet it was queer. . . . One o'clock. Said he'd be back at nine. Four hours without any word. A long time, a hell of a long time. Anything could happen in four hours. In four minutes! In four seconds, even. . . .

Jock began to wish that he had allowed himself to see more of Brad lately. He had remained away from the bungalow to avoid Eunice, of course, but he might have made an effort to meet Brad somewhere else occasionally. After that night, for instance. He should have gone straight to him and had a talk after that night at the Black-and-Tan, instead of pretending he didn't know a thing about it. There might have been some logical explanation. Perhaps he could have helped Brad in some way. He reproached himself bitterly now. "Fine friend I turned out to be! Passing by on the other side——"

Bones Allen moaned in his sleep, and Jock almost leaped at the sound. That noise! Noise that a man might make if he were hurt, wounded . . . or if he were pinned under an automobile somewhere on a deserted road, locked into a coupé like an animal in a cage. . . . Brad. . . .

"Here!" he told himself sharply. "I've got to cut this out, or I'll only upset Eunice more. Brad's all right. Sure he's all right. He probably got drunk or something, and forgot to come home." But this