A boy came up with a telegram.
“From Jim, I reckon,” the sheriff said, taking it. “No; it's for you, Mr. Morris.”
It was torn open hastily; then Morris looked from one to the other with a blank, scared face, while the paper fluttered from his hold.
Mitchell caught it, and read aloud slowly, as if he did not believe his eyes:
“'Am safe. Will be out on the ten o'clock train. ELEANOR.'”
Morris stood there, shaking, and sobbing hard, dry sobs.
“It'll kill him!” the sheriff said. “Quick, some whiskey!”
A flask was forced between the blue, trembling lips.
“Drink, old fellow,” and Mitchell put his arm about Morris's shoulders. “It's all right now, thank God!”
Morris was leaning against his friend, sobbing like a woman. The sheriff drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes, and shook his head.