"How do you feel, my man?" questioned Elliston.
"I--I'm used up."
"It looks so."
Elliston bent lower.
"You're going to die, Sam, sure's shooting," he said in a whisper at
the ear of the prostrate wretch.
A groan was the only reply.
"Do you hear me, Sam?"
"Yes, I--I hear," was the faint answer.
Placing his lips to the ear of the man, Elliston continued to whisper
for some seconds.
Soon the detective returned with a flask of brandy, which he at once
placed to the lips of the bruised and helpless wreck. A few sips
seemed to revive the man wonderfully.
"Tell me your name, my man," questioned the detective, eagerly.
"Sam Swart."
"Do you realize your condition? You have but a few hours to live, and
if you wish to free your mind, we will listen."
Elliston stood at the man's feet, facing him with folded arms, while
the kneeling detective addressed himself to the apparently dying man.
"I haven't nothing to tell."
"See here, Mr. Swart, it is better that you tell what you know. Do
justice for once, and it may be better with you in the hereafter. You
attempted to murder me last night, and I believe you had a hand in the
death of Arnold Nicholson and the robbery of the express.
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