"You finished off Owen Stark," remarked Devreaux, gruffly changing the subject. "Got him through the heart, and I don't imagine that he knew what hit him. I've a notion it was he who shot me last fall."
"Yes—he was the one. He boasted to me of his long-range marksmanship."
"In any event, Alison has told me the circumstances of his death," returned the superintendent. "She's willing to testify that you acted solely in self-defense. There'll be no difficulties for you in this affair."
"Alison saved my life twice," observed Dexter irrelevantly. "She's—"
He broke off speech abruptly as a light footstep sounded in the cabin entrance. Turning, he caught sight of a slender figure in knickers and frayed white sweater. "Good evening, Alison," he said with softening glance. "I was just telling the colonel how you jumped into that mess with Stark, just as he was about to let me have it. Nobody ever did a braver thing than that."
She faced him with a melancholy smile. "What else could I do?" she asked. "You were unarmed, and that man meant to shoot you without giving you a chance. I—I didn't stop to think. It all happened like something in a dream. Before I realized what I was doing the pistol was in my hand, and I had aimed and fired."
Dexter eyed her curiously for a moment. "Why did you take the revolver from my pocket?" he asked after a pause.
"Because your right arm was broken, and I didn't know whether you could shoot straight with your left hand," she answered without hesitation. "There was always danger of your falling asleep or of being caught off your guard, and I knew you were afraid of Crill." Alison cast a fleeting glance towards the opposite wall, where the handcuffed outlaw sat hunched in the shadow. "I'm not a bad shot," she added in a quiet voice, "and I thought that if anything happened—well, I'd be armed. And in a case of that sort I was ready to stand by the police."
Dexter searched her candid blue eyes, and gently nodded. "I only wondered—" he started to say, but before he could finish a sudden interruption came from the far corner of the room. A wild cry rang through the cabin, a stool was overturned clattering on the floor, and they faced about in amazement to see Archie Preston fling himself to his feet and stumble forward with a newspaper gripped in his shaking hands.
"Alison!" he burst out in unrestrained excitement. "This old paper that Sergeant Brunswick had in his pocket—it's—there's a story in it about me! Oh, it's too good—I can't believe that I've read it straight."