The Blond Spiders. Charles Beadle

insisted the other peevishly. Then with a convulsive start and fright in his eyes—

      “Where is it?”

      “What?”

      “The sack! The sack!”

      “You hadn’t any sack. Had he, Plessons?”

      “No; nothin’.”

      “Where did you come from?” persisted Tony as the man stared as if in blank dismay.

      “Why—I told you. Oh, God, where are they?”

      “Who?”

      Seemingly torn with mental anguish, the man tried to raise himself, but merely succeeded in twisting a little to one side. Then he caught a glimpse of Bodiker’s face staring down at him. Instantly Bodiker stood back. “See if another shot will do him good,” said he in a low voice and strode rapidly from the tent.

      “That man—that man,” mumbled the old fellow frantically and strove again to rise.

      “No, no; lie quietly,” urged Tony persuasively. “You’re mistaken. He can’t be any of the men. He’s been with us all the time.”

      “Yes,” the old man insisted. “But—where are they?”

      His eyes wandered piteously from one to the other.

      “Where are what?”

      “The sack—the stones—the letters?”

      “He’s wandering I think,” whispered Tony. “Better try to get him to sleep a bit.”

      The old fellow lay quiet, striving hard to control his mind. Then suddenly, as if summoning all his will power for a supreme effort, he struggled half up in bed and cried out clearly:

      “They’ll never get the letters—nor the stones—and without they can’t know how to find them. They ——”

      The sudden entry of Bodiker startled him. He stared wildly and muttered unintelligibly. Then his supporting skeleton arm collapsed and he fell back on the pillow gasping.

      They saw his lips moving and bent to listen. Tony caught an agonized, “Too late!” and the body went limp and the light out of the eyes.

      “He’s gone!” whispered Plessons.

      “What did he say?” demanded Bodiker, and his voice was anxious. “Get any sense out of him?”

      “No,” responded Tony. “Died before we could get what he was trying to say.”

      Bodiker muttered something and queried, “Sure he’s dead?” peering doubtfully into the glazing eyes. “Better give him another shot—maybe bring him round,” he hastened to add.

      “Ain’t no use,” said Plessons, “unless Peter’ll give him one!”

      Bodiker still stared doubtfully. Then after touching the eyeballs he seemed satisfied.

      “Phew!” he sighed, wiping the gouts of sweat from his brow. “Guess he won’t need—quinin after all!”