Hammon was not dead. Merkle felt his way into the darkened regions at the rear and returned with a glass of spirits. Under his and Bob's ministrations the unconscious man opened his eyes.
"You got me here, didn't you?" he whispered, as he took in his surroundings. "Now go—everything is all right."
"We're not going to leave you," Merkle said, positively.
"No!" echoed Bob. "I'll wake up Orson while John telephones the doctor."
But Hammon forbade Bob's movement with a frown. It was plain that despite his weakness his mind remained clear. "Listen to me," he ordered. "Prop me up—put me in that chair. I'm choking." They did as he directed. "That's better. Now, you mustn't be seen here—either of you. We can't explain." He checked Merkle. "I know best. Go home; it's only two blocks—I'll telephone."
"You'll ring for Orson quick?"
Hammon nodded.
"Rotten way to leave a man," Bob mumbled. "I'd rather stick it out and face the music."
"Go, go! You're wasting time." Hammon's brow was wrinkled with pain and anger. "You've been good; now hurry."
Merkle's thin face was marked with deep feeling.