“No.”
“Do—do you—know—”
“Do I know who you are? Not exactly, but I take you to be one of the convicts who broke jail last week.”
The man made a convulsive movement, and then, battling for breath as he spoke, wailed out:
“Listen—you want to take me back to prison—there is a reward—of course. If you only knew—when I was a boy—on the western prairies—free, free. Then here in the city—driven to beg—to steal to—. Oh! don’t take me back to die in prison! You don’t know the horror of it!”
A look of pitying tenderness lighted the face bent above the dying man.
“Poor fellow!” said Stanhope softly. “I am an officer of the law, but I am also human. If you recover, I must do my duty: if you must die, you shall not die in prison.”
“I shall die,” said the man, in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall die—die.”
His head pressed more heavily against Stanhope’s knee; he seemed a heavier weight upon his arm. Bending still lower, the detective listened for his breathing, passed his hand over the limp fingers and clammy face. Then he gathered the form, that was more than his own weight, in his muscular arms, and bore it away through the darkness, muttering, as he went:
“That was a splendid stand-off! What would those fellows say, if they knew that Dick Stanhope, single-handed and alone, had walked their alleys in safety, and bluffed their entire gang!”