At noon she brought his luncheon.  When she came back for the tray she noticed that he had not eaten, nor would he talk while she was there.  But that evening he seemed more like himself.  After she had taken his temperature he jokingly asked her if he bit that there little glass dingus in two what would happen?”

“Why, I’d have to buy a new one,” she replied, smiling.

Pete’s face expressed surprise.  “Say!” he queried, sitting up, “did The Spider pay you for bein’ my private nurse, too?”

“He must have made some arrangement with Dr. Andover.  He put me in charge of your case.”

“But don’t you git anything extra for—­for smilin’ at folks—­and—­coaxin’ ’em to eat—­and wastin’ your time botherin’ around ’em most all day?”

“The hospital gets the extra money.  I get my usual salary.”

“You ain’t mad at me, be you?”

“Why, no, why should I be?”

“I dunno.  I reckon I talk kind of rough—­and that mebby I said somethin’—­but—­would you mind if I was to tell you somethin’.  I been thinkin’ about it ever since you brung that paper.  It’s somethin’ mighty important—­and—­”

“Your dinner is getting cold,” said Doris.

“Shucks!  I jest got to tell somebody!  Did you read what was in that paper?”

Doris nodded.

“About that fella called Steve Gary that The Spider bumped off in that gamblin’-joint?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if that’s right—­and the papers ain’t got things twisted, like when they said The Spider was my father—­why, if it was Steve Gary—­I kin go back to the Concho and kind o’ start over ag’in.”

“I don’t understand.”

“’Course you don’t!  You see, me and Gary mixed onct—­and—­”

Doris’ gray eyes grew big as Pete spoke rapidly of his early life, of the horse-trader, of Annersley and Bailey and Montoya, and young Andy White—­characters who passed swiftly before her vision as she followed Pete’s fortunes up to the moment when he was brought into the hospital.  And presently she understood that he was trying to tell her that if the newspaper report was authentic he was a free man.  His eagerness to vindicate himself was only too apparent.

Suddenly he ceased talking.  The animation died from his dark eyes.  “Mebby it wa’n’t the same Steve Gary,” he said.

“If it had been, you mean that you could go back to your friends—­and there would be no trouble—?”

Pete nodded.  “But I don’t know.”

“Is there any way of finding out—­before you leave here?” she asked.

“I might write a letter and ask Jim Bailey, or Andy.  They would know.”

“I’ll get you a pen and paper.”

Pete flushed.  “Would you mind writin’ it for me?  I ain’t no reg’lar, professional writer.  Pop Annersley learned me some—­but I reckon Jim could read your writin’ better.”

“Of course I’ll write the letter, if you want me to.  If you’ll just tell me what you wish to say I’ll take it down on this pad and copy it in my room.”