It is hard to say which was the more surprised of the two—Thorne at seeing Wilfred, or Wilfred at Thorne’s appearance. The latter’s face was pale, his breath was coming rapidly, he was bareheaded. His brow was covered with sweat, and he had the hunted, desperate look of a man at the very end of his resources. Neither at first said anything to the other. It was Thorne who first recovered himself. He sought to pass by the boy, but Wilfred seized him.
“Halt!” he cried; “you are under arrest.”
“Wait a moment!” gasped out Thorne; “and I will go with you.”
As he spoke he shook himself loose from the weak grasp of the wounded young man, and started down the room.
“Halt, I say!” cried Wilfred. “You are my prisoner.”
“All right, all right,” said Thorne quietly; “your prisoner, anything you like. Here,”—he drew his revolver from his pocket and pushed it into the boy’s hand; “take this, shoot the life out of me, if you wish; but give me a chance to see my brother first.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. He was shot here to-night. I want one look at his face; that’s all.”
“Where is he?”
“Maybe they put him in the room across the hall yonder.”