“I thought you just said he didn’t have a friend in the world.”

“Oh, I don’t count—­that way.”  Then hurriedly:  “I forgot—­he did ask me to write to some one—­the first day—­a Jim Ewell, in Arizona.  He asked me to say he had ‘delivered the goods.’  I don’t know that I should have done it without reporting it, but—­well, you said he couldn’t live—­”

“Some outlaw pal of his, probably,” said Andover, frowning.  “But that has nothing to do with his—­er—­condition right now.”

“And sometimes he talks when he is half-conscious, and he often speaks to some one he calls ‘The Spider,’” asserted Doris.

“Queer affair.  Well, I’ll think about it.  If we do operate, I’ll want you—­”

The surgeon was interrupted by a nurse who told him there was a man who wanted to see Peter Annersley:  that the man was insistent.  The head-nurse was having supper, and should the caller be allowed in after visiting hours?

“Send him in,” said the surgeon, and he stepped into the superintendent’s office.  Almost immediately The Spider sidled across the hallway and entered the room.  The surgeon saw a short, shriveled, bow-legged man, inconspicuously dressed save for his black Stetson and the riding-boots which showed below the bottom of his trousers.  The Spider’s black beady eyes burned in his weather-beaten and scarred face—­“the eyes of a hunted man”—­thought the surgeon.  In a peculiar, high-pitched voice, he asked Andover if he were the doctor in charge.

“I’m Andover, head-surgeon,” said the other.  “Won’t you sit down?”

The other glanced round.  Andover got up and closed the door.  “You wish to see young Annersley, I understand.”

“You looking after him?”

Andover nodded.

“Is he hurt pretty bad?”

“Yes.  I doubt if he will recover.”

“Can I see him?”

“Well,”—­and the surgeon hesitated,—­“it’s after hours.  But I don’t suppose it will do any harm.  You are a friend of his?”

“About the only one, I reckon.”

“Well—­I’ll step in with you.  He may be asleep.  If he is—­”

“I won’t bother him.”

The nurse met them, and put her finger to her lips.  Andover nodded and stepped aside as The Spider hobbled to the cot and gazed silently at Pete’s white face.  Then The Spider turned abruptly and hobbled down the aisle, followed by Andover.  “Come in here,” said the surgeon as The Spider hesitated.

Andover told him briefly that there was one chance in a thousand of Pete’s recovery; that the shock had been terrific, describing just where the bullet was lodged and its effect upon the sensory nerves.  Andover was somewhat surprised to find that this queer person knew considerable about gun-shot wounds and was even more surprised when The Spider drew a flat sheaf of bills from his pocket and asked what an operation would cost.  Andover told him.