Then he hastened out.
June had flown to her mother.
"Tell me—tell me, mother, what it means!" she implored.
"My smelling-salts," faintly breathed the woman. "My heart, June! I—I'm afraid!"
Now, June knew well that the one great fear of her mother's life was sudden death from a heart trouble that came upon her at times, and so the girl hastened to bring out the bottle of salts and hold it beneath the pale lady's nose till she was somewhat recovered, though still resting limp on her chair and breathing heavily.
"What does it mean, mother?" asked the girl again. "I do not understand these strange things. I do not understand why such a wicked-looking man should be here in this room and about to shoot down in cold blood a young man in the street. He would have shot him from this very window had not I spoiled his aim."
Mrs. Arlington turned her eyes toward her daughter's face, but looked away quickly, still trembling.
"Did you know him at whom the man was about to shoot?" she weakly asked.
"Yes, I knew him, or I am much mistaken. It was Frank Merriwell. I saw him at the hotel in Fardale the day I returned to him those papers. You recollect, mother?"