Garth appraised the fugitive's damp and stained clothing. He could picture him hiding all night and day—perhaps in that small, half-ruined stone building which showed dimly from here—until the necessities of hunger or the impulse to return to the scene of his crime and learn its dénouement had driven him from cover. The haggard face seemed eloquent of guilt.
Garth sprang up and, his revolver ready, faced the man.
"Dr. Randall! I've plenty of help near."
Randall stepped back.
"And what about Treving?" he asked in a husky voice.
Garth watched him warily.
"I'm sorry," he answered, "but I've got to take you for his murder."
Randall's face whitened. He held himself rigidly. After a time he relaxed and laughed. His words came with difficulty as if his mouth held no moisture.
"I'm wanted for Treving's murder!"
"You'll come quietly?"
"Yes. What's that noise? I thought I heard some one scream, a—a woman."
"Dr. Randall," Garth began steadily, "did you ever—"
"See here," Randall interrupted, "I'll answer no questions until I've seen my lawyer. Where's my wife? What about my wife?"
Garth cleared his throat.
