"What is it?" she questioned breathlessly. "Is he dead?"
"I do not know; but that man is not Cavendish."
"Not Cavendish! Why he told me that was his name; he even described being thrown from the back platform of a train by that Ned Beaton; who can he be, then?"
"That is more than I can guess; only he is not Fred Cavendish. Will you hold the lamp until I learn if he is alive?"
She took it in trembling hands, supporting herself against the wall, while he crossed the room, and knelt beside the motionless figure. A careful examination revealed the man's wound to be painful though not particularly serious, Westcott carefully redressed the wound as best he could, then with one hand he lifted the man's head and the motion caused the eyelids to flutter. Slowly the eyes opened, and stared up into the face bending over him. The wounded man breathed heavily, the dull stare in his eyes changing to a look of bewildered intelligence.
"Where am I?" he asked thickly. "Oh, yes, I remember; I was shot. Who are you?"
"I am Jim Westcott; do you remember me?"
The searching eyes evidenced no sense of recollection.
"No," he said, struggling to make the words clear. "I never heard that name before."
Miss Donovan came forward, the lamp in her hand, the light shining full in her face.