“They’re what, Laura? Bringing Hal back home?”
She nodded silently. He thought he had never seen a woman so pale.
“Captain, let them in!” she cried. “I’ve got to tell you. Hal—is injured. Open the door, quick! Get Dr. Filhiol!”
Everything else forgotten now, the captain turned, precipitated himself into the hall and snatched open the front door. Gusts of rain and wind tugged at him, flapping his bath robe. For a moment, not understanding anything, he stood peering out at what was all a blur of perfectly incomprehensible confusion. His fear-stricken eyes and brain failed to register any clear perception. A second or two, he neither heard nor saw. Then he became aware that some one—Jim Gordon, yes—was saying:
“We done the best we could, cap’n. Got him here as fast as we could. We’ll bring him right in.”
The captain saw something white out there on the dark, wet porch. In the midst of this whiteness a form was visible—and now the old man perceived a face; Hal’s face—and what, for God’s sake, was all this crimson stain?
He plunged forward, thrusting the men aside. A lantern swung, and he saw clearly.
“God above! They’ve—they’ve murdered him!”
“No, cap’n, he ain’t dead yit,” said some one, “but you’d better git him ’tended to, right snug off.”