“Someone’s hurt,” whispered the girl.
“Don’t move. It’s only a ruse.”
They listened once more, and this time the sound came more distinct; it was the moaning breathing of a man unconscious.
“Stay where you are,” commanded Wilson. “I’ll see what the matter is.”
He neared the curtains and called out,
“Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”
There was no other reply but that spasmodic intake of breath, the jerky outlet through loose lips.
He crossed the room and lighted the bit of remaining candle. With this held above his head, he parted the curtains and peered out. The stranger was sitting upright against the wall, his head fallen sideways and the revolver held loosely in his limp fingers. As Wilson crossed to his side, he heard the girl at his heels.
“He’s hurt,” she exclaimed.