We spoke, and the next instant he appeared on our threshold, revolver in hand, with his face pale and drawn, and his figure less erect, less self-reliant than usual.
He was bloody from a wound on his head, and his clothes were torn in shreds. He steadied himself with his left hand against the door frame.
"Great goodness, Oakes, what is wrong?" said Dr. Moore, rising to help his friend.
"What the devil!" I exclaimed. "Where have you been?"
"In the cellar," said Oakes.
"What have you been doing?" said Moore, in a most excitable way.
Back came the answer in a feeble tone: "Really, I don't know. Having a little practice, I guess."
"Catch him, Stone," cried Moore.
I jumped forward, and the stalwart figure dropped vertically—collapsing at the knees, then pitched headlong into the room.