“Oh, I’ve good hopes of him,” he said.  “He seems to be doing all right.  He’ll pull around—­that is, unless any unforeseen complications set in.  It’s that journey down here yesterday that’s upset him.  Absolutely necessary under the circumstances, of course, but—­terribly hard on a man in his condition.  I think it’ll be best for nobody to visit him—­for awhile anyway . . . must be kept as quiet as possible.  Well! let’s have a look at the others!”

The remaining wounded men occupied a large, semi-private ward lower down the corridor.  Of these last Hardy’s case was by far the most serious.  He had been shot through the body; the high-pressure Luger bullet luckily missing any vital organ.  McCullough had been drilled through the calf of his left leg, Davis through the arm, and Belt had had the knuckles stripped from his right hand.  All of them were resting quietly, though weak from loss of blood and the train journey,

The O.C. and Kilbride remained for a short time in the ward, manifesting much kindly sympathy for the injured men, then, deeming that perhaps the party was retarding the nurses’ ministrations, the O.C. withdrew, beckoning his subordinates to follow him.

Slavin and Yorke walked slowly down the hospital steps and climbed into the Police drag again.  Sloan gathered up his lines and swung around on his high seat.

“Hullo!” he remarked sleepily.  “Here you are again, eh?  Begun to think you were both in there for keeps!  Well, did you see him?”

“Yes!” answered Yorke tonelessly, avoiding the teamster’s eyes, “We’ve seen him.  Home, James!”

Firm, measured footsteps sounded in the hospital corridor and halted with a jingle of spurs outside the door of room Number Fifty-six.

“Come aboard!” came the clear, boyish voice of its occupant, in response to a knuckle-tattoo on the panel, and the visitors, Slavin and Yorke, entered.

Redmond, sitting up in bed, comfortably propped with pillows, threw aside the magazine he had been reading and greeted the new-comers jovially and with a light in his eyes which did the hearts of those worthies good to see.

A month’s careful nursing and absolute quiet had transformed their wounded comrade into a somewhat different being from the delirious patient they had beheld when last they stood in that room.  Allowing for a slight emaciation and the inevitable hospital pallor, he appeared to be well on the road to convalescence.

“Sit at ease!” he said, with a fair semblance of his old grin.  “Smoke up if you want to, they don’t kick about it here.  I’ve tried it but it tastes rotten as yet.  Well!  What’s doin’ in L?” (He referred to the Division.)

“Hell, yu’ mane,” corrected Slavin grimly, as he and Yorke proceeded to divest themselves of their side-arms and unbutton their tunics.  “Not much doin’ now, but—­later, p’raps. . . .”

“Just got back from Supreme Court,” explained Yorke.  “Gully! . . .  He’s to be ‘bumped off’ this day-month. . . .”