“He—­he’s come through all right?”

“Yes.  You might call up in an hour or so.”

The Spider rose stiffly and put on his hat.

“Thanks,” he said and hobbled out and across the lobby.  A cab was waiting for him, and the driver seemed to know his destination, for he whipped up his horse and drove south toward the Mexican quarter, finally stopping at an inconspicuous house on a dingy side street that led toward the river.  The Spider glanced up and down the street before he alighted.  Then he gave the driver a bill quite out of proportion to his recent service.  “You can come about the same time to-morrow,” said The Spider, and he turned and hobbled to the house.

About noon he came out, and after walking several blocks stopped at a corner grocery and telephoned to the hospital, asking for Andover, who informed him that the operation had been successful, as an operation, but that the patient was in a critical condition—­that it would be several hours before they would dare risk a definite statement as to his chances of recovery.  The surgeon told The Spider that they were using oxygen, which fact in itself was significant.

The Spider crossed the street to a restaurant, drank several cups of coffee, and on his way out bought a supply 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.”