I crept along--the carpets were thick and soft and silky as the
rug I'd had my hands buried in to keep 'em warm.

Along a long hall and through a great room, whose walls were
thick with books, I was making for a light I could see at the
back of the house. That's where Tom Dorgan must be and where I
must be to find out--to know.

With my hands out in front of me I hurried, but softly, and just
as I had reached the portieres below which the light streamed, my
arms closed about a thing--cold as marble, naked--I thought it
was a dead body upright there, and with a cry, I pitched forward
through the curtains into the lighted room.

"Nance!--you devil!"

You recognize it? Yep, it was Tom. Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of
Latimer's bed, his hands above his head, and Latimer's gun aimed
right at his heart.

Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you?

His eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed
themselves again on Tom. But his voice went straight at me, all
right.

"You are something of a thankless devil, I must admit,
Miss--Omar," he said.