“Then who were those other men?” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Well, one was the postmaster, and there was the man that owns the hotel. The other man was the doctor. It was he who fixed you up.”
Then, for the first time, she seemed to notice his bandaged head. With a little cry, she struggled feebly to raise herself, eyeing him fearfully the while.
“Where’s Harry?” she gasped tensely. “You’ve been hurt, like me. Did you an’ him get shootin’ at each other again? Oh, tell me. Where is he?”
He strove to soothe her and allay her agitation, but without avail.
“Please! oh, please, Policeman!” she sobbed. “Don’t arrest him. Let him go! He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
Her continued piteous pleading moved him greatly. Puzzled at this attitude towards the man who had ruined and maltreated her, Ellis inquired gently:
“Why?”
The great imploring dark eyes became like two twin stars, seeming to search his very soul, as a wave of ineffable forgiving pity and devotion glorified the face of the dying girl.
“Because—I—I—” she faltered.