"Quick, Tom!" he shouted, "Open that other window. I'll attend to
this man. He's groggy, anyhow."
Garrick had dropped down on his knees and had deftly slipped a
pair of handcuffs on the unresisting wrists of the man. Then he
staggered to my side at the open window, for air.
"Heavens--this is awful!" he gasped and sputtered. "I wonder where
they all went?"
"Who is this fellow?" I asked.
"I don't know yet. I couldn't see."
A moment later, together, we had dragged the unconscious man to
the window with us, while I fanned him with my hat and Garrick was
wetting his face with water from a pitcher of ice on the table.
"Good Lord!" Garrick exclaimed suddenly, as in the fitful light he
bent over the figure. "Do you see who it is?"
I bent down too and peered more closely.
It was Angus Forbes.
Strange to say, here was the young gambler whom we had seen at the
gambling joint before it was raided, the long-lost and long-sought
Forbes who had disappeared after the raid, and from whom no one
had yet heard a word.
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