Dexter whirled with a gasp of dismay. He stared wildly—blinked his eyes incredulously—and stared again. In the open doorway stood Colonel Devreaux.
"Colonel!" cried Dexter.
The superintendent held motionless for a space, his keen, searching glance taking in the strange scene before him. "We heard shots," he remarked after a hushed interval. "What's happened here?"
Relief, thankfulness, and also a great weariness, might have been read in the relaxing lines of the corporal's face. He had held up for hours by the strength of will, but at sight of his officer the buoying sense of responsibility left him, and he found himself slipping. He seemed all at once to lose inches of stature, to settle within himself, as a sword shoved back in its scabbard. For once in his life he failed to answer his commander's question.
"You—I believed you were dead," he said in a queer, far-off voice.
"Not yet." Devreaux peered at the corporal from under his grizzled brows. "I wandered down the valley to find you, after you had left that cave; but the sun thawed out your trail. Kept on going, and after days managed to reach the lower pass. And I chanced to meet Sergeant Brunswick and Constables Devlin and Jones coming in from the south to hunt me."
"You—you're all right?" asked Dexter weakly.
"Able to travel, at any rate." The old man thrust out his barrel-like chest, and the old dauntless smile for an instant crossed his deep-lined face.
"But how did you find me?" persisted the corporal in his unsteady voice.
"You left police blazes behind to mark your trail." The colonel squinted curiously as he surveyed the man before him. "Forgotten?"