Seite 142 von 439

How long she wandered, a prey to terror, calling helplessly in

the blackness, she did not know. It seemed to her that she must

always wander so, a perpetual prisoner condemned to this living

grave. So that it was with a distinct shock of glad surprise she

heard a voice answer faintly her calls. Calling and listening

alternately, she groped her way in the direction of the sounds,

and so at last came plump against the figure of the approaching

rescuer.

"Who is it?" a hoarse voice demanded.

But before she could answer a match flared and was held close to

her face. The same light that revealed her to him told the girl

who this man was that had met her alone a million miles from

human aid. The haggard, drawn countenance with the lifted upper

lip and the sunken eyes that glared into hers belonged to the

convict Nick Struve.

The match went out before either of them spoke.