His head was
swimming from weakness. He heard an exclamation from above and
looked up.
For an instant he made out the faces of the nurse and doctor
against the sky above him. Then the nurse disappeared, and the
doctor stepped out on the sill. He was going to follow; the nurse
had gone for help. There was one thing to do: hurry--hurry!
Once more the Wolf looked up at his pursuer. He laughed his own
sneering, cruel laugh. The ladder seemed to swing and sway
dizzily. It was like being at the top of a tall mast in a heavy
sea. He clutched the ladder. Then everything grew dark, guns
boomed in his ears, his grasp loosened and the last long night
and the last long silence wrapped him like a cloak.
The Weasel had bitten to the bone.
Crushed and mangled, they lifted the Wolf from the pavement five
stories below, and taking him into the hospital once more for a
little while, laid him in the chamber of death beside the
stretcher where the Weasel rested with that new look in his face.
But the nurse who had cared for the Weasel knew the manner of his
going, and rolled his stretcher away across the room. She would
not let him lie even in death beside the other.
The very next afternoon the telephone rang.
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