He went through the bungalow to the dining-room still half expecting to find his brother-in-law awaiting him. But the moment he entered, he had a shock. A man in a rough tweed coat was sitting at the table in an odd, hunched attitude, almost as if he had fallen into the chair that supported him.
He turned his head a little at Tommy's entrance, but not so that the light revealed his face. "Hullo!" he said. "That you, Ralston? I've got a bullet in my left shoulder. Do you mind getting it out?"
Tommy stopped dead. He felt as if his heart stopped also. He knew—surely he knew—that voice! But it was not that of Everard or Barnes, or of any one he had ever expected to meet again on earth.
"What—what—" he gasped feebly, and went backwards against the door-post. "Am I drunk?" he questioned with himself.
The man in the chair turned more fully. "Why, it's Tommy!" he said.
The light smote full upon him now throwing up every detail of a countenance which, though handsome, had begun to show unmistakable signs of coarse and intemperate habits. He laughed as he met the boy's shocked eyes, but the laugh caught in his throat and turned to a strangled oath. Then he began to cough.
"Oh—my God!" said Tommy.
He turned then, horror urging him, and tore back to Ralston, as one pursued by devils. He burst in upon him headlong.
"For heaven's sake, come! That fellow—it's—it's——"
"Who?" said Ralston sharply.