“Where is she?”
“I—I don't know exactly.”
“You don't know!”
“Why, Madame Pourmont has been caring for her.”
“You mean that she is ill?”
“No. Oh, no! One moment. You've been hurt. I must tell the others. You must have attention at once. Mary Cassin is right here—and my wife.” The little man moved to the door. His color was returning now; he was talking rapidly, out of a confused mind. “You must have had a terrible time.”
“They left me for dead at the Hung Chan Gate. I crawled to the house of a convert.” Doane's great eyes, staring out of shadowy hollows, burned with tragic memories. Those eyes held Boatwright fascinated; he shivered slightly. “As soon as I felt able to travel I started toward T'ainan. Several of our native people came with me, walking at night, biding by day. On the way we learned that you had left. So I came here. I must see Betty.”
“But not like this,” the little man blurted out. Doane's eyes wandered down over his muddy tattered clothing.
“I'll call the others first,” said Boatwright He set down his candle on the wash-stand, just inside the door, and slipped out.
Doane sat erect, without moving. His eyes stared at the candle and at the grotesque wavering shadows of the wash-howl and pitcher on the wall. At each small night sound he started nervously—the scratching of a mouse, a voice in the compound, a distant sputter of shots.