Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. It cost her seventy-seven dollars. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. He knew me, Nigel. Yes. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. She held out both her hands. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet.
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