“I’m afraid he was; he was shot in the groin while attempting to escape from the house.”
“How is he getting along?”
“Badly,” was the response; “in fact I am satisfied in my own mind that he is going to make a die of it.”
Herbert’s sympathies were instantly aroused. He had no regard whatever for Adler, and looked upon him as a very undesirable member of society; but the thought of any man being shot and dying from his wounds appealed strongly to his sympathetic nature.
“I used to know this man at one time,” he said; “I wonder if I could be of any use to him. I wonder if he has any friends or relatives that he would care to see.”
“I don’t know,” replied the other.
“Could I see him?” persisted Herbert eagerly; “I might be able to do something.”
“Yes,” was the ready rejoinder, “come with me.”
The two men walked up a flight of stairs and into the accident ward of the hospital. They passed along through row after row of white counterpaned cots. Men of all kinds and descriptions were on these beds of suffering; some within the shadow of the Valley of Death, and others convalescent. In the last cot on the very end row they found the wounded burglar. He presented a pitiable spectacle; and when Herbert looked at his white face and at the countenance twisted with suffering, his heart melted and he forgot all the evil the man had done during his useless life. He groaned with the pain and looked up just as they reached his bedside. His eyes flashed a glance of recognition at Herbert. He put a thin hand outside of the coverlet, and exclaimed eagerly, but in a weak and husky voice:
“Hello there, boy! You’re just the person I want to see.”