Some heavy gray veil seemed to lift away, and the wounded man opened his eyes, and moved uneasily.
“It’s only the arm, poor boy . . . but I know it hurts!”
“What is it?” he asked vacantly.
“It’s only the arm, and not a bone broken! See, I’ve stopped the bleeding, and a week or two of quiet somewhere, and it’ll be all better! Then—then you’ll sit up and thank God for it!”
He could hear her voice more distinctly now, and could feel her hands feverishly caressing his face and hair.
“Speak to me, Jim,” she pleaded, passionately. “You’re all I’ve got—you’re all that’s left to me in the whole wide world!”
He opened his eyes again, and smiled at her; but it was such a wan and broken smile that a tempest of weeping swept over the woman bending above him. He could feel her hot tears scalding his face.
Then she suddenly drew herself up, rigid and tense, for the sound of heavy footsteps smote on her ear. Durkin heard them, too, in his languid and uncomprehending way; he also heard the authoritative knock that came from the hall door.
He surmised that Frank had opened the splintered door, for in the dim sidelight of the hall he could see the flash of metal buttons on the dark blue uniform, and the outline of a patrolman’s cap.
“Anything wrong up here, lady?” the officer was demanding, a little out of breath.