ous of a terror that made him
dread, to look at it, to go near it. Beside it a nurse sat silent, and
upon it feebly tossed the racked body of him whom Barrett had called
Jerry the Teller.

The head was a shapeless bundle, so swathed it was with bandages
and cloths, and what part of the face was visible was discolored and
pigmented with drugs. Stretched under the white sheet the man looked
immensely tall--as Horner saw with vague misgiving--and he lay in an
odd, inhuman fashion, as though he had been all broken to pieces.
His attempts to move were constantly soothed by the nurse, and he
as constantly renewed such attempts; and one hand, though torn and
bandaged, was not to be restrained from a wandering, restless movement
which Meredith felt to be pathetic. He had entered the room with a flare
of hate for the thug whom he had come to see die, and who had struck
down the old friend whose nearness he had never known until it was too
late. But at first sight of the broken figure he felt all animosity fall
away from him; only awe remained, and a growing, traitorous pity as he
watched the long, white fingers of the Teller "pick at the coverlet."
The man was muttering rapid fragments of words, and syllables.

"Somehow I feel a sense of wrong," Meredith whispered to Gay. "I feel as
if I had done the fellow to death myself, as if it were all out of gear.
I know, now, how Henry felt over the great Guisard. My God, how tall he
looks! That doesn't seem to me like a thug's hand."

The surgeon nodded. "Of course, if there's a mistake to be made, you can
count on Barrett and his sergeants to make it. I doubt if this is their
man. When they found him what clothes he wore were torn and stained; but
they had been good once, especially the linen."

Barrett bent over the recumbent figure. "See here. Jerry," he said, "I
want to talk to you a little. Rouse up, will you? I want to talk to you
as a friend."

The incoherent muttering continued.

"See here, Jerry!" repeated Barrett, more sharply. "Jerry! rouse up,
will you? We don't want any fooling; understand that, Jerry!" He dropped
his hand on the man's shoulder and shook him slightly. The Teller
uttered a short, gasping cry.

"Let me," said Gay, and swiftly interposed. Bending over the cot, he
said in a pleasant, soft voice: "It's all right, old man; it's all
right. Slattery wants to know what you did with that man down at
Plattville, when you got through with him. He can't remember