The bell in the kitchen rang feebly.
She listened. Some one was fumbling at the front door, but the roar of the wind drowned the noise.
The bell rang loud and clear. She sprang to the stairs and went down with quick, nervous step. She fastened the chain-latch, opened the door an inch, and the dim light of the hall flashed on Gordon's haggard, blood-stained face.
She flung the door open, drew him quickly within, slammed and bolted it.
Throwing her arms around his dripping form, she drew him down and kissed his cold lips.
"Frank, my darling, what is it?" she cried, in breathless amazement.
"You must help me, Ruth, dear," he gasped. "We had a fight. I have killed Overman. If you can hide me for a few days, I can escape. I don't deserve it—but I know that you love me"
"Yes, yes," she sobbed, kissing his hand, "through life and death, through evil report and good report!"
She put him to bed, washed and dressed his wounds. One of them, an ugly hole over his left lung, kept spouting bruised blood as he breathed. The dark eyes grew dim as she watched it.
"Oh! Frank, I must have a doctor," she said, tremulously.
"No, Ruth; I can sleep now. I'll be better in the morning. A doctor will know me."
