Elliston bent lower.
"You're going to die, Sam, sure's shooting," he said in a whisper at the ear of the prostrate wretch.
A groan was the only reply.
"Do you hear me, Sam?"
"Yes, I—I hear," was the faint answer.
Placing his lips to the ear of the man, Elliston continued to whisper for some seconds.
Soon the detective returned with a flask of brandy, which he at once placed to the lips of the bruised and helpless wreck. A few sips seemed to revive the man wonderfully.
"Tell me your name, my man," questioned the detective, eagerly.
"Sam Swart."
"Do you realize your condition? You have but a few hours to live, and if you wish to free your mind, we will listen."