"Great glory, it's Marchand! It's Felix Marchand!" someone shouted.
"Is he dead?" asked another.
"Dead drunk," was the comment of Osterhaut, who had helped to carry him
across the street.
At that moment Ingolby appeared on the scene. "What's all this?" he
asked. Then he recognized Marchand. "He's been playing with fire again,"
he added sarcastically, and there was a look of contempt on his face.
As he said it, Dennis broke through the crowd and made for Marchand.
Stooping over, he looked into Marchand's face.
"Hell and damnation--you!" he growled. "I risked my life to save you!"
With a sudden access of rage his hand suddenly went to his hip-pocket,
but another hand was quicker. It was that of Fleda Druse.
"No--no," she said, her fingers on his wrist. "You have had your revenge.
For the rest of his life he will have to bear his punishment--that you
have saved him. Leave him alone. It was to be. It is fate."
Dennis Doane was not a man of great thinking capacity. If he got a matter
into his head it stayed there till it was dislodged, and dislodging was a
real business with him.
"If you want her to live with you again, you had better let this be as it
is," whispered Fleda, for the crowd were surging round and cheering the
new hero.
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