“We’re terribly sorry, McClintick!” Tom said, huskily. “How can we help you?” McClintick looked up, his great eyes emphasized by the sunken cheeks.
“Fellows,” he said, as though it was an effort, “you’re real men, all of you. I’ve seen you at the Lodge. I’ve been stealing in there all this time. I had to live somehow until I found Weston. Now I can go too!” He straightened up for a second, then fell in a faint.
We worked over him and gradually he came to. Then he looked up, a sad, sweet smile. It was pitiful!
“You can help me,” he gasped faintly, “back to my Lodge. I’ll show you the way, if you’ll give me a lift.” He stood up between Tom and me, his long, thin arms encircling our shoulders. Then he glanced at the dead lynx as though he knew it was the last look he would take at the one thing left in life to him.
Tom and I had to carry him almost, he was getting so weak, and finally he told us that we had arrived. It wasn’t far from the cleft—just in a little way.
Brent had the searchlight and McClintick nodded toward a huge boulder. He said we’d have to crawl inside and then we could only sit up.
It proved to be a good-sized cave. The inside had been furnished with a few things from the Lodge, such as pillows and blankets, and odds and ends of things to make a fellow barely comfortable. We laid him down.
“I suffered terribly this winter,” he said, seeing us looking around. “Didn’t think I’d survive it, but I did. Prayed for strength till Weston came and I could give my money over to poor Mrs. Northrop. Insurance money, it was! Blood money, I called it!
“That’s why I took Peter out of my grave. The world thinks it’s mine and it will be. He was too fine to be buried under a McClintick name. WE’ve been tainted!”
The fellow’s eyes seemed to be gazing afar and his thin hands twitched at the blankets we had wrapped around him. Tom, Brent and I exchanged significant glances. Roland McClintick’s life was nearly ended!