X
“My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills——”
He relapsed into coma.
“Some hooch!” exclaimed Bassett.
Two days later he again awoke. “Are you normal now? Or still Norval?” asked Bassett.
“I am Jud Clark,” he answered. “I shot Beverly Carlysle’s husband in the”—he stopped.
“In what?” asked Bassett, regarding him steadily.
“In the billiard room. He tore the cloth with his cue. It was justifiable homicide. There were no witnesses. I could not possibly be convicted. We must flee at once.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Yes. I am Dick Livingston. I can remember Papa and Mamma, Uncle David, Aunt Lucy, the cook, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, the postman and the spot on the parlor rug—everything—everyone, except—one. I cannot remember Elizabeth. I remember how she looked, her voice, her eyes, her hair—but not her name—Elizabeth—I cannot remember that.”
Bassett took Dick on his back and carried him for days and days, miles and miles, up and down the mountains, through the blinding blizzard, without food, drink or sleep.
When he deposited his burden on the station platform at Norada, his hands and feet were worn to ribbons.
He looked cautiously around. A man approached—blue uniform, brass buttons. They must not be taken alive!
He shouldered the conscious man again, drew his revolver, set his back against a door. It yielded. They fell headlong backwards——
(To be continued.)