"Certainly," responded Warden Rand cordially. "You've met Doctor Kreelmar, I think."
"Several times," said the doctor stiffly.
Merton bowed politely, apparently oblivious of the other's brusqueness—and addressed himself to Warden Rand.
"I met one of the mounted patrol—Kingman—as I was driving in," he said. "Kingman told me that Varge had been in a desperate fight and that he was badly hurt. I was going over to the house, but I hurried in here instead"—Merton sensed a thrill of exultation creeping into his voice and lowered it to a tone of more consistent concern. "I just caught the doctor's last words as I came in. I sincerely hope that it is not as bad as that." He turned to Doctor Kreelmar. "Is there no chance whatever, doctor?"
"None at all," said Doctor Kreelmar curtly, quite well aware of the mistake Merton was labouring under, and deliberately refusing to enlighten him.
"Too bad," murmured Merton in a low voice. "Too bad. I—"
"Doctor Kreelmar was speaking of Wenger, one of the guards," explained Warden Rand quickly, with a slight frown of disapproval directed at the doctor.
"Oh!" said Merton. "Not—not Varge. I—I am very glad. And Varge, then?"
"Will live," said the warden. "And I am sure you will be glad to know that as soon as he is able to be about again, we are going to make things easier for him—thanks to what he has done this afternoon."
"I am indeed," said Merton instantly, with well-simulated sincerity. "Anything that can be done for him,
