“Well,” said the superintendent, “your friend made a mighty good fight before he gave up. The Teller, that's the man we've got out here, he's so hacked up and shot and battered his mother wouldn't know him, if she wanted to; at least, that's what Gay, here, says. We haven't seen him, because the doctors have been at him ever since he was found, and they expect to do some more tonight, when we've had our interview with him, if he lives long enough. One of my sergeants found him in, the freight-yards about four-o'clock and sent him here in the ambulance; knew it was Teller, because he was stowed away in one of the empty cars that came from Plattville last night, and Slattery--that's his running mate, the one we caught with the coat and hat--gave in that they beat their way on that freight. I guess Slattery let this one do most of the fighting; he ain't scratched; but Mr. Harkless certainly made it hot for the Teller.” “My relative believes that Mr. Harkless is still alive,” said Meredith. Mr. Barrett permitted himself an indulgent smile. He had the air of having long ago discovered everything which anybody might wish to know, and of knowing a great deal which he held in reserve because it was necessary to suppress many facts for a purpose far beyond his auditor's comprehension, though a very simple matter to himself. “Well, hardly, I expect,” he replied, easily. “No; he's hardly alive.” “Oh, don't say that,” said Meredith. “I'm afraid Mr. Barrett has to say it,” broke in Warren Smith. “We're up here to see this fellow before he dies, to try and get him to tell what disposal they made of the----” “Ah!” Meredith shivered. “I believe I'd rather he said the other than to hear you say that.”