Cummings and Moriarity having left, the widow, for the first time
ventured to look at her new charge. Her keen eyes noted the disguise
which Chip had adopted. The wicked blow which had brought him to this
plight had moved the red wig to one side and disclosed the dark
clustering hair, now bathed and soaked in his blood.

He was still unconscious, but his strong constitution was regaining its
sway, and he moved uneasily on his soft couch.

The widow, now remembering the commands which Cummings had laid upon
her, hastened to bring water, and washed the wound. The slung shot had
struck squarely across the crown of the head, but the cut was not very
large or deep, and the widow, with ready skill, bound it neatly with
bandages, and holding a brandy flask to his mouth forced some of its
contents down his throat.

The color came back to the detective's face, and in a few moments his
eyes opened, and with a dazed expression wandered over the room.

The widow, as she noticed the first signs of returning consciousness had
retired from the room, now, with consummate skill, put a kindly, even
tender, look toward the sufferer as she reappeared through the door.

Chip, still very much bewildered, his head feeling as though it was
whirling off his shoulders, heard a pleasant voice asking: "And how is
my poor boy, now?"

Chip gazed vacantly at her, as he responded:

"Who are you? Where am I--my head--"