himself for a mighty effort, broke from the supporting grasp of the detective, and fled away down the dark street.

Down one block and half across the next he ran manfully. Then he reeled, staggered wildly from side to side, threw up his arms, and fell heavily upon his face.

“I knew you’d bring yourself down,” said Stanhope, coming up behind him. “You should not treat a man as an enemy, sir, until he’s proven himself such.”

He lifted the prostrate man, turning him easily, and rested the fallen head upon his knee.

“Can you swallow a little?” pressing a flask of brandy to the lips of the ex-convict.

The man gasped and feebly swallowed a little of the liquor.

“There,” laying down the flask, “are your wounds bleeding?”

The wounded man groaned, and then whispered feebly:

“I’m done for—I think—are you—an officer?”

“Yes.”

“Af—after me?”

“No.”

“Do—do you—know—”

“Do I know who you are? Not exactly, but I take you to be one of the convicts who broke jail last week.”

The man made a convulsive movement, and then, battling for breath as he spoke, wailed out:

“Listen—you want to take me back to prison—there is a[63] reward—of course. If you only knew—when I was a boy—on the western prairies—free, free. Then here in the city—driven to beg—to steal to—. Oh! don’t take me back to die in prison! You don’t know the horror of it!”

[63]

A look of pitying tenderness lighted the face bent above the dying man.

“Poor fellow!” said Stanhope softly. “I am an officer of the law, but 

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