“Newton Mills, the great city detective? Who hasn’t?”
“That,” said Johnny dramatically, “is Newton Mills.”
“What!” Drew took a step forward. “It can’t be. He disappeared three years ago. He’s dead.
“And yet—” He stared at the face of the man on the cot.
Then he tore into a trunk to drag out a bundle of old photographs. One of these he studied intently for a moment. Then turning to Johnny, he said in a voice tense with emotion,
“Yes, Johnny, that is Newton Mills. You have indeed found a man.
“My God!” he exclaimed in an altered tone. “I wonder if that’s the price? Will I be like that in twenty years?”
To this question he expected no reply. He received none.
He took a seat beside the cot where the man with deep-lined face and tangled white hair was sleeping. For a long time he said nothing. Silence brooded over the shack.
“This man, Drew Lane, is an unusual person,” Johnny told himself. “He is so full of strange deep thoughts.”