"Yes, ma'm. He ain't got as much's a nickel on him."
Overwhelmed, Joan sank into a chair. The boy avoided her desolate eyes;
he was a little afraid she might want part of the five dollars back.
"Hadn't I better send the hotel doctor up, ma'm?"
"Perhaps," she muttered dully.
"Yes, ma'm. And here's the check for your suit-case. Nothing else? Good
night, ma'm."
The door closed.
Of a sudden, Joan jumped up and ran to the bed in the alcove.
Quard's condition was pitiable, but in her excited no compassion. His
face was pallid as a death-mask save on one cheek-bone, where there was
an angry and livid contusion. His hands were scratched, bleeding, and
filthy, his clothing begrimed and torn, his pockets turned inside out.
He seemed scarcely to breathe, and a thin froth flecked his slack and
swollen lips.
With feverish haste she unbuttoned his shirt and trousers and tugged at
his undershirt. Then she sobbed aloud, a short, dry sob of relief. She
had discovered the money-belt. In another minute she had unbuckled and
withdrawn it from his body. She took it to the other room, to the light,
and hastily undid its fastenings.
There were perhaps two dozen fresh, new bills, for the most part of
large denominations, folded once lengthwise to fit into the narrow
silken tube; but someone knocked before she found time to reckon up
their sum.
Hastily cramming the money, together with the tell-tale belt, into her
handbag, Joan took a deep breath and said "Come in!"
There entered a grave man of middle-age, carrying a physician's satchel.