“And now,” concluded Drew, “the poor girl hovers between life and death.”
“And the bullet?” insisted Newton Mills excitedly.
“It has been removed. I have it. Here it is.” Drew dropped a pellet of lead into the trembling hand of the old-time detective.
Johnny shuddered and turned away at sight of it.
Holding it between thumb and finger, as a jeweler might a pearl, Newton Mills examined it with a critical eye. He turned it over and over. He studied it from every possible angle.
“The forceps,” he commented at last, “have done harm, but not too much.”
“This,” he said, turning it over once again, “is a precious thing.”
Thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew forth a small leather pouch. From this he poured a handful of coins. He put the bullet in their place, wrote a few words on a slip of paper and thrust it after the bullet.
“There must be no mistake,” he murmured as he drew the strings of the pouch tight and put it back into his pocket.
As if to say, “Money is of little consequence,” he scooped up the coins and dumped them loose into another pocket.