"
"Not Cavendish! Why he told me that was his name; he even described
being thrown from the back platform of a train by that Ned Beaton; who
can he be, then?"
"That is more than I can guess; only he is not Fred Cavendish. Will
you hold the lamp until I learn if he is alive?"
She took it in trembling hands, supporting herself against the wall,
while he crossed the room, and knelt beside the motionless figure. A
careful examination revealed the man's wound to be painful though not
particularly serious, Westcott carefully redressed the wound as best he
could, then with one hand he lifted the man's head and the motion
caused the eyelids to flutter. Slowly the eyes opened, and stared up
into the face bending over him. The wounded man breathed heavily, the
dull stare in his eyes changing to a look of bewildered intelligence.
"Where am I?" he asked thickly. "Oh, yes, I remember; I was shot. Who
are you?"
"I am Jim Westcott; do you remember me?"
The searching eyes evidenced no sense of recollection.
"No," he said, struggling to make the words clear.
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