No one could answer either question.
No cards nor letters were found on the stranger's person to prove his identity, and no one present recognized him.
Leroy Hill could only tell that he had seen the encounter from an upper window, and that the assassin had escaped before he reached the street.
Doctor Rowe looked up, asking: "Has any one 'phoned for an ambulance to take him to the hospital? His last chance of life will soon be gone if he has to lie here in the street."
A bystander interposed, sarcastically:
"And he won't have much chance of life among some of those brutal nurses at the hospital, neither."
Mr. Hill's absent friend had come up a moment before, and the young man turned to him, saying, kindly:
"Let's give the poor devil a chance for his life, Ralph. Can't we get a room in the house and hire a nurse for him?"
"Why, certainly, Lee. Glad you thought of it! We will put him in my bedroom and I can sleep on the lounge in my study," returned Ralph Washburn who was an author, and had the kindest heart in the world.
And so Harry Hawthorne found true friends among those jolly, big-hearted Westerners, and, under their faithful ministrations, he came back to the life that had used him so hardly.