“Ha, I remember. Was taken sick!” He attempted to sit up, but fell back weakly. “I’ve had a siege,” he thought. “Glad to see another man of the service here. How long have I been ill? And what’s the matter with me?”
Morely stared down at him. Finally:
“You’ve had the smallpox. But you are right-o now. On the mend.”
Hardy drew a startled breath. That voice! No two voices in the world were identical.
Why was this officer before him speaking with the voice of the mail robber whom he was pursuing? He closed his eyes. Weakness, no doubt, had caused hallucination.
“You have been ill three weeks. You’ve been a very sick man, but you are on the highway now,” that tormenting voice went on. “I’ll stay with you until you are able to get out of bed, and help yourself, then—I’ll go on.”
Hallucination be damned! Hardy’s eyes jerked open. Long and steadily he stared at the uniform. His own, of course—there was that mended rent on the tunic sleeve, and that smudge of oil on the left trouser leg!
His eyes swung to the man’s face.
“I recognize you. And what are you doing here? Why didn’t you get away?” The voice was weak but steady.
“And leave you to die! I’m not that sort of a rotter,” Morely said scornfully.