"It's _'im!_" he shouted; "it's _'im!_"
"Him?" demanded Jeanne.
"_It's Mr. Blagwin!_"
Unlike Preston, Jeanne did not scream; nor did she faint. So greatly did
she desire to believe that "'im" was her husband, that he still was in
the same world with herself, that she did not ask how he had escaped
from the other world, or why, having escaped, he spent his time robbing
his own house.
Instead, much like Preston, she threw herself at him and in her young,
firm arms lifted him and held him close.
"Jimmie!" she cried, "_speak_ to me; _speak_ to me!"
The blow on the back of the head, the throttling by Preston, the
"stopping power" of the bullet, even though it passed only through his
leg, had left Jimmie somewhat confused. He knew only that it was a
dream. But wonderful as it was to dream that once more he was with
Jeanne, that she clung to him, needed and welcomed him, he could not
linger to enjoy the dream. He was dead. If not, he must escape. Honor
compelled it. He made a movement to rise, and fell back.
The voice of Preston, because he had choked his master, full of remorse,
and, because his mistress had shot him, full of reproach, rose in
dismay:
"You've 'it 'im in the leg, ma'am!"
Jimmie heard Jeanne protest hysterically:
"That's nothing, he's _alive_!" she cried.
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