Half way along Station Street Gregory stopped before the Livingstone

house, read the sign, and rang the doorbell. The reporter slowed down,

to give him time for admission, and then slowly passed. In front of

Harrison Miller's house, however, he stopped and waited. He lighted a

cigarette and made a careful survey of the old place. Strange, if this

were to prove the haven where Judson Clark had taken refuge, this old

brick two-story dwelling, with its ramshackle stable in the rear, its

small vegetable garden, its casual beds of simple garden flowers set in

a half acre or so of ground.

A doctor. A pill shooter. Jud Clark!




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