The man
was nearly gone--it needed no experienced eye to tell that. Melinoff's
face was grayish in its pallor, and his eyes, open, seemed to have lost
their lustre; but as Jimmie Dale knelt and lifted the man's shoulders
and supported the other's head upon his knee, the light in the
old-clothes dealer's black eyes seemed suddenly to return and to glow
with a strange, passionate, eager fire, as they fixed on Jimmie Dale's
face. Melinoff's lips moved. Jimmie Dale bent his head to Catch the
words that were almost inaudible.
"The--the Pippin. Here"--the old man's hand struggled toward his side
where a dark crimson blotch had soaked his shirt--"here--he--he stabbed
me--because--because--" The voice failed and died away, and the man's
head fell back on Jimmie Dale's arm.
Jimmie Dale raised the other's head gently again.
"Yes!" he said quickly, striving to rouse the other. "Yes; go on! I
understand. The Pippin stabbed you. Because--what? Go on, Melinoff! Go
on! I am listening."
The eyes opened once more--but the light was dying out of them, and they
were filming now. And then suddenly the man forced himself forward into
a sitting posture, and his voice rang wildly through the room:
"It is a lie! A lie! I played square--do you hear! Old Melinoff
played square! I did not understand at first--but I did not
forget.
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