34

“You’re not hurt?” she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head and strained his ears to the hall without.

He led her to the wall through which the door opened and, pressing her close against it, took his position in front of her. Then the silence closed in upon them once again. A bit of coal kindled in the grate, throwing out blue and yellow flames with tiny crackling. The shadows danced upon the wall. The curtains over the oblong entrance hung limp and motionless and mute. For aught they showed there might have been a dozen eyes behind them leering in; the points of a dozen weapons pricking through; the muzzles of a dozen revolvers ready to bark death. Each second he expected them to open––to unmask. The suspense grew nerve-racking. And behind him the girl kept whispering, “What is it? Tell me.” He felt her hands upon his shoulders.

“Hush! Listen!”

From beyond the curtains came the sound of a muffled groan.

“Someone’s hurt,” whispered the girl.

“Don’t move. It’s only a ruse.”

They listened once more, and this time the sound came more distinct; it was the moaning breathing of a man unconscious.

“Stay where you are,” commanded Wilson. “I’ll see what the matter is.”

He neared the curtains and called out,

“Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

35

There was no other reply but that spasmodic intake of breath, the jerky outlet through loose lips.

He crossed the room and lighted the bit of remaining candle. With this held above his head, he parted the curtains and peered out. The stranger was sitting upright against the wall, his head fallen sideways and the revolver held loosely in his limp fingers. As Wilson crossed to his side, he heard the girl at his heels.

“He’s hurt,” she exclaimed.

Stooping quickly, Wilson snatched the weapon from the nerveless fingers. It was quite unnecessary. The man 

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