of cigars. He played
solitaire in his room all that afternoon, smoking and muttering to
himself until the fading light caused him to glance at his watch. He
slipped into his coat and made his way uptown.

Shortly after seven he entered the hospital. Andover had left word
that he be allowed to see Pete. And again The Spider stood beside
Pete's cot, gazing down upon a face startlingly white in contrast to
his dark hair and black eyebrows--a face drawn, the cheeks pinched, and
the lips bloodless. "You taking care of him?"--and The Spider turned
to Doris. She nodded, wondering if this queer, almost deformed
creature were "The Spider" that Pete had so often talked to when
half-conscious. Whoever he was, her quick, feminine intuition told her
that this man's stiff and awkward silence signified more than any
spoken solicitude; that behind those beady black eyes was a soul that
was tormented with doubt and hope, a soul that had battled through dark
ways to this one great unselfish moment . . . How could one know that
this man risked his life in coming there? Yet she did know it. The
very fact that he was Pete's friend would almost substantiate that.
Had not the papers said that Peter Annersley was a hired gunman of The
Spider's? And although this man had not given his name, she knew that
he was The Spider of Pete's incoherent mutterings. And The Spider,
glancing about the room, gazed curiously at the metal oxygen tank and
then at the other cot.

"You staying here right along?" he queried.

"For a while until he is out of danger."

"When will that be?"

"I don't know. But I do know that he is going to live."

"Did the doc say so?"

Doris shook her head. "No, Dr. Andover thinks he has a chance, but I
_know_ that he will get well."

"Does Pete know that I been here?"

"No. The doctor thought it best not to say anything about that yet."

"I reckon that's right."

"Is he your son?" asked Doris.

"No. Just a kid that used to--work for me."

And without further word, The Spider hobbled to the doorway and was
gone.

Hour after hour Doris sat by the cot watching the faintly flickering
life that, bereft of conscious will, fought for existence with each
deep-drawn breath. About two in the morning Pete's breathing seemed to
stop. Doris felt the hesitant throb of the pulse and, rising, stepped
to the hall and telephoned for the house-surgeon.

"Caught it just in time," he said to the nurse as he step