Ricardo stared from the outraged Webster to his sister and back again.
“Jack Webster,” he declared, “you aren't crazy, are you?”
“Of course he is—the old dear,” Dolores cried happily, “but I'm not.” She stepped up to her brother, and her arms went around his neck. “Oh, Rick,” she cried, “I'm your sister. Truly, I am.”
“Dolores. My little lost sister Dolores? Why, I can't believe it!”
“Well, you'd better believe it,” John Stuart Webster growled feebly. “Of course, you can doubt my word and get away with it, now that I'm flat on my back, but if you dare cast aspersions on that girl's veracity, I'll murder you a month from now.”
He closed his eyes, feeling instinctively that he ought not spy on such a sacred family scene. When, however, the affecting meeting was over and Dolores was ruffling the Websterian foretop while her brother pressed the Websterian hand and tried to say all the things he felt but couldn't express, John Stuart Webster brought them both back to a realization of present conditions.
“Don't thank me, sir,” he piped in pathetic imitation of the small boy of melodrama. “I have only done me duty, and for that I cannot accept this purse of gold, even though my father and mother are starving.”
“Oh, Caliph, do be serious,” Dolores pleaded.
He looked up at her fondly. “Take your brother out to Mother Jenks and prove your case, Miss Ruey,” he advised her. “And while you're at it, I certainly hope somebody will remember I'm not accustomed to reposing on a centre table. Rick, if you can persuade some citizen of this conquered commonwealth to put me to bed, I'd be obliged. I'm dead tired, old horse. I'm—ah—sleepy——”
His head rolled weakly to one side, for he had been playing a part and had nerved himself to finish it gracefully, even in his weakened condition. He sighed, moaned slightly, and slipped into unconsciousness.