“Dying,” was his answer.
Dying! Curly Jim! Impossible. I had misled my informant as to the exact man I wanted, or else there were two James Calverts in Tampa. Curly Jim, the former cowboy, was not the fellow to succumb in camp before he had ever smelt powder.
“It is James Calvert of the First Volunteer Corps I am after,” said I. “A sturdy fellow—”
“No doubt, no doubt. Many sturdy fellows are down. He’s down to stay. Typhoid, you know. Bad case. No hope from the start. Pity, but—”
I heard no more. Dying! Curly Jim. He who was considered to be immune! He who held the secret—
“Let me see him,” I demanded. “It is important—a police matter—a word from him may save a life. He is still breathing?”
“Yes, but I do not think there is any chance of his speaking. He did not recognize his nurse five minutes ago.”
As bad as that! But I did not despair. I did not dare to. I had staked everything on this interview, and I was not going to lose its promised results from any lack of effort on my own part.
“Let me see him,” I repeated.
I was taken in. The few persons I saw clustered about a narrow cot in one corner gave way and I was cut to the heart to see that they did this not so much out of consideration for me or my errand there as from the consciousness that their business at the bedside of this dying man was over. He was on the point of breathing his last. I pressed forward, and after one quick scrutiny of the closed eyes and pale face I knelt at his side and whispered a name into his ear. It was that of Veronica Moore.