The lawyer had turned the key in the lock and stood near the door, watching him intently, noting the close-cropped head, the thin, pallid face, the nondescript garments of the wayfarer.
“You managed to escape,” he finally said, slowly.
“Yes, I did.” The man coughed, clutching the table for support.
“I got away last week,” he explained, panting. “Yes—and I stole the clothes,” with a glance at the sleeves of his rough gray shirt. “I’m a thief, now, just like you, Westcott.”
The other made an inarticulate sound in his throat.
“We’ll let all that pass,” the intruder said, with a toss of one gaunt hand. “I’m up to no harm, but I’ve got to have help. I’ve got out of that hell you left me in at Phoenix; but it won’t do me any good. I’m dying!”
Another fit of coughing shook him, until he reeled. Westcott pushed a chair toward him and he sank into it, still gripping the table.
“I’m dying,” he said again, when the cough had spent itself, “and I want to get back and die in God’s country.”
Westcott sat down opposite him, still watching him, intently.
“I can’t walk back,” the man went on, “and I ain’t fit to beat it back. You’re welcome to the fifteen hundred you got off me; but can’t you—for the love of God, won’t you—give me the price of a ticket back to Iowa?”