He fumbled in his breast and his fingers brought forth a crumpled piece of paper. He thrust it into the sheriff's hands.
"Look! Look!" he gasped. "The man they found murdered on the claim there"—he pointed wildly up the hillside—"Doctor Moreau. I found him—dying! Stires—"
Strength was fast failing him. He tried again to speak, but only inarticulate sounds came from his throat.
A blind terror had clutched the heart of the girl leaning from the shadow. "Doctor Moreau"—"murdered." Why, he had been one of Hugh's friends! Why did this man couple Hugh's name with that worst of crimes? What dreadful thing was he trying to tell? She hardly repressed a desire to scream aloud.
"Be careful what you say, Prendergast," said the sheriff sternly.
The wretched man gathered force for a last effort. His voice came in a croaking whisper:
"It was Stires killed him. Moreau wrote it down—and I—kept the paper. Tell Hugh—we break—even!"
That was all. His head fell back with a shiver, and Emmet Prendergast was gone on a longer journey than ever his revenge could warm him.