Finally
he knew that he was in a room in which others were present. He
suppressed a shudder at the low, menacing voices.
A moment later he felt them remove the bandage from his eyes, and,
blinking at the light, he could see a hard-faced fellow, pale and
weak, on a blood-stained couch. Over him bent a masked man and
another man stood nearby, endeavoring by improvised bandages to
stop the flow of blood.
"What can you do for this fellow?" asked the masked man.
Dr. Morton, seeing nothing else to do, for he was more than
outnumbered now, bent down and examined him.
As he rose, he said, "He will be dead from loss of blood by
morning, no matter if he is properly bandaged."
"Is there nothing that can save him?" whispered the Clutching Hand
hoarsely.
"Blood transfusion might save him," replied the Doctor. "But so
much blood would be needed that whoever gives it would be liable
to die himself."
Clutching Hand stood silent a moment, thinking, as he gazed at the
man who had been one of his chief reliances. Then, with a menacing
gesture, he spoke in a low, bitter tone.
"SHE WHO SHOT HIM SHALL SUPPLY THE BLOOD."
. . . . . . . .
A few quick directions followed to his subordinates, and as he
made ready to go, he muttered, "Keep the doctor here. Don't let
him stir from the room.
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