“I hadn't got MY breath,—not all of it. I remember his coming into my room where they were tying me up and bawling out something about how to reach you by wire, and he says now that I gave him Mr. Grayson's address. I cannot remember that part of it, except that I—Well, never mind about that—” he hesitated turning away his gaze—the memory seemed to bring with it a certain pain.
“Yes,—tell me,” she pleaded. She was too happy. This was what she had been waiting for. There was no detail he must omit.
“It was nothing, only I kept thinking it was you who were hurt,” he stammered.
“Me!” she cried, her eyes dancing. The ray of light was breaking—one with a promise in it for the future!
“Yes,—you, Miss Ruth! Funny, isn't it, how when you are half dead you get things mixed up.” Oh, the stupidity of these lovers! Not a thing had he seen of the flash of expectation in her eyes or of the hot color rising to her cheeks. “I thought somebody was trying to tell your father that you were hurt, and I was fighting to keep him from hearing it. But you must thank Bolton for letting you know.”
Ruth's face clouded and the sparkle died out in her eyes. What was Mr. Bolton to her, and at a time like this?
“It was most kind of Mr. Bolton,” she answered in a constrained voice. “I only wish he had said something more; we had a terrible day. Uncle Peter was nearly crazy about you; he telegraphed and telegraphed, but we could get no answer. That's why it was such a relief to find you at the station.”
But the bat had not finished banging his head against the wall. “Then I did do some good by going?” he asked earnestly.
“Oh, indeed you did.” If he did not care whether she had been hurt or not, even in his delirium, she was not going to betray herself. “It was the first time anybody had seen Uncle Peter smile; he was wretched all day. He loves you very dearly, Mr. Breen.”
Jack's hand dropped so suddenly to his side that the pain made him tighten his lips. For a moment he did not answer.