“A Boche got me.” His wandering subconscious thoughts flowed into other memories. “Zero hour, boys. Over the top and give ’em hell.” Then, without any apparent break from one theme to another, his thick voice fell to a cunning whisper. “There’s a joint on South Clark Street where I can get it.” Into his disjointed mutterings her name came at times, spoken always with a respect that was almost reverence. And perhaps a moment later his voice would ring out clear and crisp in directions to the men working under him. Subjects merged into each other inconsequently--long-forgotten episodes of school days, college larks, murmured endearments to the mother who had died many years since. Listening to him, Betty knew that she was hearing revelations of a soul masculine but essentially clean. A sound startled her, the click of the latch. She turned her head swiftly as the door opened. Fear drenched her heart. The man on the threshold was Prowers. He had come out of a strong white light and at first could see nothing in the dark cabin. Betty watched him as he stood there, his bleached blue eyes blinking while they adjusted themselves to another focus. “What do you want?” she asked sharply, the accent of alarm in her voice. “A woman, by jiminy by jinks!” The surprise in his squeaky voice was pronounced. He moved forward to the bed. “Clint Reed’s girl. Where you come from? How’d you get here?” She had drawn back to the wall at the head of the bed in order to keep a space between them. Her heart was racing furiously. His cold eyes, with the knife-edge stab in them, held hers fast. “I came in over the snow to nurse him.” “Alone?” “No. Mr. Merrick’s with me.” “Where?” “At the top of the hill. He broke a ski.” “Where’s Don?” “Gone to meet him. They’ll be here in a minute.” A cunning, impish grin broke the lines of the man’s leathery face. He remembered that he had come prepared to be surprised to hear of Hollister’s wound. “Nurse who?” he asked suavely. “Mr. Hollister, the engineer driving the tunnel.” “Sick, is he?” He scarcely took the trouble to veil his rancorous malice. It rode him, voice, manner, and mocking eye. His mouth was a thin straight line, horribly cruel. “Some one shot him--last night--through the window.” She knew now that he had done it or had had it done. The sense of outrage, of horror at his unhuman callousness, drove the fear out of her bosom. Her eyes accused him, though her tongue made no charge. “Shot him, by jiminy by jinks! Why, Daniels had ought to put the fellow in the calaboose. Who did it?” “I don’t know. Do you?” she flashed back. His evil grin derided her. “How would I know, my dear?” He drew up a chair and sat down. The girl did not move. Rigid and watchful, she did not let her eye waver from him for an instant. He nodded toward the delirious man. “Will he make it?” “I don’t know.” “Doc seen him yet?” “No.”