"I think so. Turn him over."
Monahan obeyed, and as Jack had expected, he saw the livid, drawn face of the half mad youth he had tried to befriend. The eyes were closed.
Jack nodded. "His name is Berg. Is he dead?"
Delamare shook his head smiling. "Not much. Stunned only. I cracked him on the head with his own gun. He had no strength."
A wave of compassion swept over Jack. "Poor devil! Poor devil!" he murmured. "He isn't the real criminal!"
"I expect not," said Delamare.
Jack suddenly became aware of a dark stain spreading on Delamare's coat sleeve above the elbow. "You're wounded!" he cried.
"Nothing serious. A flesh wound. I can move my arm freely."
"You must have a doctor."
"All right. Monahan, telephone for Doctor McArdle. Then for the police."