And now he loosened
the heavy wig itself to give her relief--she would have no further need
of that, for it would not be as Silver Mag that she left here--if she
left here at all--no, no!--his mind seemed breaking--she would leave
here, she _must_--yes, yes, she was breathing now--she was not
dead--not dead!
He wrenched his flashlight from his pocket. To find the wound and stop
the flow of blood! The ray shot out--there was a cry from Jimmie
Dale--and like a man distraught he reeled to his feet--and like a man
distraught stared at the upturned face, ghastly white under the
flashlight's glare.
_It was the Pippin_.
The wig of grizzled hair that he had unconsciously been holding dropped
from Jimmie Dale's hand, and his hand went upward to his temple. Was he
mad! Was this joy, relief, rage or fury that, surging upon him, was
robbing him of his senses! The Pippin! How could it be the Pippin! The
cloak with its hood, and the long, gray matted wig were very like Silver
Mag's--very like Silver Mag's! The Pippin! The Pippin!--one-time actor
who had murdered old Melinoff, _the old-clothes dealer!_ No--he was not
mad! Dimly, his mind groping in the darkness, he began to see.
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