Grasping her by the wrist, and pressing the revolver to her head, Sam said, sternly, and in a voice that would brook no delay:
"What have you done with the man brought here last night?"
Nance pointed to the next room, too frightened to speak, and thrusting her forward, Sam continued his search.
Chip, his head covered with a bandage, and still somewhat confused, recognized his comrade as he entered the room. His mind was clear enough, however, to appreciate the situation, when the terror-stricken hag, pointing her long skinny finger at him, quivered in a tremulous voice: "He's alive; don't you see he's alive?"
Overjoyed at finding Chip safe and still alive, Sam clasped his hands.
"Can you walk, Chip?" he asked,
"I don't know, Sam. I had a devilish close call," and Chip threw back the covers and essayed to step from the bed. His limbs trembled, and throwing up his hands despairingly, he sank back again. A flask of brandy stood on the table, and in an instant Sam had the cork out and had poured some of its contents down his friend's throat.
The generous fluid warmed the blood and revived the strength of the wounded detective, who, making another attempt, stood on his feet.
Throwing his arm around Chip's waist, Sam bade the thoroughly cowed woman to go before him, and was moving slowly to the door when a sharp, stern voice commanded:
"Stop!"