as a sort of library and bedroom
combined, carpeted in dark red, the walls papered in red also, and the
windows curtained with heavy tapestry silk of the same rich hue. There
were low bookcases on two sides of the room, with pictures above them;
several marble statuettes on the bookcases; and a little jade Buddha
beside a two-foot bronze god of terrifying aspect on the mantelpiece.
In the middle of the apartment stood a solid library table, of which
the cover was a curious strip of faded yellow silk embroidered with a
dragon in green, a fragment of an old Chinese banner.

At the left of the door, its head against the wall, was a brass bed in
which a figure moved restlessly under the covers. Near the head of the
bed, on the side nearest the door, stood the Indian, his stolid,
bronzed face turned toward Marion as she entered. On the other side,
holding one of Haig's hands, knelt Slim Jim in his blue silks, his
yellowish face as expressionless as Pete's, except for an alert and
questioning look in his eyes. There was no sound except the low
crackling of the fire, and the rasp of heavy breathing, with sharp
catches in it that spoke eloquently of pain.

Marion stepped to Pete's side, and looked down into the face of Philip
Haig. In the dim light it had the pallor of death, with the parted
lips and the staring eyes of the dead, or the dying. But he breathed;
and presently her steady, searching, pitying gaze brought his eyes to
meet her own, and she saw that they were living eyes, though clouded
and darkened with agony. Almost was she on her knees, weeping over
him, regardless of those in the doorway watching her. And it was not
their presence so much as the necessity for action that restrained and
steadied her. She did not even speak his name; but after her one long
look, she turned away, and with every outward sign of calm, removed
her gloves and hat and coat, and placed them on a chair in a corner of
the room. Then she beckoned to Pete, who followed her, with Smythe and
Hillyer, into the bare outer room.

"Close the door, please!" she commanded quietly.

Smythe closed it.

"Where is he hurt?" she asked the Indian.

"Here." He laid a hand on his stomach.

"Was he unconscious?"

"Yes. Long time."

"How long has he been like that--awake?"

"Maybe two hours."

"What have you done? What have you given him?"

"Whisky."

"Nothing else?"

"Water. Ammonia on face and breast."

"Was there blood?"

"Yes. From mo