“You love me?”

She looked at him, all the fervent Irish soul of her in her eyes.  Then one arm stole upward to his shoulder.

“As you love me,” she whispered softly, “as you love me!”

“I can ask no more, sweetheart,” he breathed soberly, and kissed her.  At last she drew back, still restrained by his arms, but with her eyes suddenly grave and thoughtful.

“We forget,” she chided, “where we are.  You must let me go now, and see if he is alive.  I will wait on the bench, here.”

“But you said he had been killed.”

“I do not know; there was no time for me to be sure of that.  The shot struck him here in the chest, and when he fell he knocked me down.  I tore open his shirt, and bound up the wound hastily; it did not bleed much.  He never spoke after that, and lay perfectly still.”

“Poor old Fred. I’ll do what I can for him—­I’ll not be away a minute, dear.”

He could see little from the doorway, only the dark shadow of a man’s form lying full length on the floor.  To enter he pushed aside the uptilted bed, picking up the shotgun, and setting it against the log wall.  Then he took the lamp down from the shelf, and held it so the feeble light fell upon the upturned face.  He stared down at the features thus revealed, unable for the moment to find expression for his bewilderment.

“Can you come here, dear?” he called.

She stood beside him, gazing from his face into those features on which the rays of the lamp fell.

“What is it?” she questioned breathlessly.  “Is he dead?”

“I do not know; but that man is not Cavendish.”

“Not Cavendish!  Why he told me that was his name; he even described being thrown from the back platform of a train by that Ned Beaton; who can he be, then?”

“That is more than I can guess; only he is not Fred Cavendish.  Will you hold the lamp until I learn if he is alive?”

She took it in trembling hands, supporting herself against the wall, while he crossed the room, and knelt beside the motionless figure.  A careful examination revealed the man’s wound to be painful though not particularly serious, Westcott carefully redressed the wound as best he could, then with one hand he lifted the man’s head and the motion caused the eyelids to flutter.  Slowly the eyes opened, and stared up into the face bending over him.  The wounded man breathed heavily, the dull stare in his eyes changing to a look of bewildered intelligence.

“Where am I?” he asked thickly.  “Oh, yes, I remember; I was shot.  Who are you?”

“I am Jim Westcott; do you remember me?”

The searching eyes evidenced no sense of recollection.

“No,” he said, struggling to make the words clear.  “I never heard that name before.”

Miss Donovan came forward, the lamp in her hand, the light shining full in her face.

“But you told me you were Mr. Cavendish,” she exclaimed, “and Mr. Westcott was an old friend of his—­surely you must remember?”