For a long time he sat there, fondling
the memory of that blissful moment. A slight frown made its appearance
after a while. He opened his eyes. His thoughts had veered. "What
rotten luck! If it could only have been Alix instead of that--"
He arose abruptly and began pacing the floor. After a long time he
sighed resignedly. "I mustn't forget to telephone her tomorrow."
Then he began to undress for bed.
He looked at his knee. There was a deep, irregular scar on the
outside of the leg, while on the inside a knuckle-like protuberance
of considerable size provided ample evidence of a badly shattered
joint, long since healed. Along the thigh there was another wicked
looking scar, with several smaller streaks and blemishes of a less
pronounced character. He placed some hot compresses on the joint,
gave it a vigorous massage, and, before getting into bed, worked
it up and down for several minutes.
"Clumsy ass!" he muttered. "Next time you'll watch your step. Don't
go jumping over fences in the dark. Gad, for a couple of minutes
I thought I'd put it on the blink for keeps."
The next morning, up in the woods above Alix's house, the crude
black mask was found, and some distance farther on an old grey cap,
from which the lining and sweatband had been ripped. The search
for the man, however, was fruitless. Constable Foss visited the
camp of a gang of Italian railroad labourers near Hawkins and was
reported to be bringing several indignant "dagoes" over to Windomville
to see if Courtney or the two ladies could identify them.
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