"Hetty," he said.
She knelt beside him and held a wet handkerchief to the wound.
"You're hurt bad, Lafe. Don't talk," she whispered.
"Steve Moffatt—"
"Yes, I know, dear. Lie still."
Splinters of a bottle strewed the floor around him. So Moffatt had got away. The sheriff looked weakly at Hetty.
"How did you get here?"
"Hush. You mustn't talk. Keep still and I'll go for Dr. Armstrong."
"How—?"
"I heard you calling me," she said.