“I'm sorree, but I never stole eet either, Meester Madden.”
“If I only had bromide!” growled the American, watching Smith's broad hairy chest lift and drop in short breaths.
The Englishman opened his hot red eyes. “What's that to you, Madden?” he asked thickly. The choppy white mustache pulled down in a sneer. “I might as well die now—I'm nothing but a remittance man. A remittance man,” he repeated the term with mingled self contempt and bravado. “My people have shipped me—flung me away, broken, no use,” he flung out a long hot hand at Madden. “Why do you try to pick up the pieces?” He laughed thickly, which sent wild pains through his head and stopped him suddenly.
Madden stared penetratingly at this outbreak.
“Pour water over him, Deschaillon, Hogan,” commanded the American briefly.
As his two helpers hurried out after buckets, Leonard came close to the sufferer.
“Where is it?” he asked shortly.
“Where—what?”
Madden stooped over him. “Where's that
