1
Elmer Boatwrights chin sagged a little way. For a long moment he stood motionless, making no sound; then, without change of expression on his gray thin face, he moved with a slow gliding motion backward, backward, until his knees struck the bed; and stood, bent forward, his palsied hand tipping the candle so far that the hot tallow splashed in white drops on the matting.
Slowly the giant figure stirred, straightened up, came slowly into the room; closed the door, leaned back against it.
Then Boatwright spoke, slowly, huskily:
“It—it is you?”
“Yes.” It was plainly an effort for Doane to speak. “But—but I don't see how you could have got through.”
“Men do get through now and then.” Doane spoke with the quick irritability of the man whose powers of nervous resistance have been tried to the uttermost.
“You're wounded. You must be tired.” Boatwright was quite incoherent. “You'd better lie down. Here—take my bed! How did you ever find me? How did you get in in the first place?”
“I'll sit for a moment.” Duane lowered himself painfully to the bed. “Betty is here?”
“Betty? Oh, yes! We're all safe.”