“I thought so,” he muttered with a slight catch in his voice. “You didn't follow my good advice, Bucky Nome, and now you reap the harvest of your folly. You have paid your debt to M'sieur Janette.”
Then Philip turned quickly and looked back at Billinger. In his hand the agent held a paper package, which he had torn open. A second and similar package lay in the sand in front of him.
“Currency!” he gasped. “It's a part of the money stolen from the express car. The two hundred thousand was done up in five packages, and here are two of 'em. Those men were dead when I came, and each had a package lying on his breast. The fellow who pinked me was just leaving the dip!”
He dropped the package and began ripping down his trouser leg with a knife. Philip dropped on his knees beside him, but Billinger motioned him back.
“It's not bleeding bad,” he said. “I can fix it alone.”
“You're certain, Billinger—”
“Sure!” laughed the agent, though he was biting his lips until they were necked with blood. “There's no need of you wasting time.”
For a moment Philip clutched the other's hand.
“We can't understand what this all means, old man—the carrying off of—of Isobel—and the money here, but we'll find out soon!”
“Leave that confounded carbine,” exclaimed Billinger, as the other rose to mount. “I did rotten work with it, and the other fellow fixed me with a pistol. That's why I'm not bleeding very much.”