They carried Carlson through the devastated rooms, into another room and laid him on a bed. The police surgeon arrived at almost the same moment. After a glance at the unconscious man on the bed, the surgeon said:
“But where is the girl?”
“I am Ina Holden,” she said quickly, “but never mind me. Look at him!”
“Who is he?”
“The man who saved me. They shot him just before the police came.”
The surgeon quickly tore open the blood-soaked shirt and found the bullet wound in the right side. He listened a moment to his heart; then looked up gravely.
“Very serious! There seems to be severe hemorrhage into the pleura. He must be rushed to the nearest hospital for immediate operation.”
“Doctor,” asked Ina, with shaking voice. “Is he—will he recover?”
“I am sorry to say, Miss Holden, the chances are against him. Quick, boys! The stretcher. One of you telephone Mercy Hospital to have the operating-room ready.”
And then another man burst like a whirlwind into the room—a large, bearded man of about fifty—a man of commanding presence, before whom everyone made way.