“We can’t do anything for him,” he said. “The poor devil’s about out of his misery.”
Allan, staring down at the blackened shape upon the platform, scarcely recognized in it a human being.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know him,” said the doctor, looking up and recognizing the chief dispatcher. “Maybe you do,” and he knelt down again and turned the distorted and blackened countenance so that the light shone full upon it.
At the first sickened glance, Allan decided that he had never seen the man, then a certain familiarity struck through to his consciousness.
“Why, it’s Rafe Bassett!” he cried.
“Rafe Bassett!” echoed a voice, and Allan turned to find that Stanley had broken a way through the crowd. “Well, that’s justice for you!”
“Justice?” echoed Allan.
“It was him did all that,” said Stanley, with a wave of the hand toward the burning cars. “Set fire to them an’ got burned up hisself!”
The crowd pressing upon the policemen heard the words and a low angry murmur ran through it, for with that blackened shape before them, the detective’s words sounded particularly heartless.