Zaidos felt for the chain with his free hand, still pressing the artery with the other. As he found the chain, a large locket was released from the man’s blouse and, swinging against his buttons, sprung open. Unconsciously Zaidos looked at it.
“Send that with the rest,” said the officer. He closed his eyes.
“Here, you!” cried Zaidos. “Quit that! Don’t you dare go and die! Do you hear me! Don’t you do it! Do you hear? I want to talk! I don’t need to send this anywhere. If you just hang on, you will see her! Helen is here! Don’t die now! You want to see her, don’t you? I know who you are! You are Tony Hazelden!”
“Helen here?” gasped the man.
“Yes,” said Zaidos. “She is a nurse over there, a few yards away.”
“Helen here?” said the man again.
“Yes, I tell you!” cried Zaidos. “Hang on to yourself! You want to tell her why you did not answer that letter she wrote you; don’t you?”
“I never received a letter,” said Hazelden, for it was he.
“That’s what I told her,” said Zaidos. “Now you just hang on to yourself. Don’t you let go! Do whatever you like afterwards, but don’t make me go back there and tell her you have gone and died before I could get you in hospital. I’d like to know where that Velo is with my kit! Here, take another drink of this!”
He pressed the flask once more to Hazelden’s white lips. The man seemed sinking into a stupor. Zaidos watched him with secret terror. After the miracle of finding Hazelden here, when he was supposed by Helen to be far off in France, and after the brief joy of thinking that he might be the one to reunite the parted lovers, it was too hard to face the loss of his man. Zaidos kept calling him by name. Finally—it seemed a long, long time—Hazelden opened his eyes again.