voice said, "That old piece of the plane's undercarriage must have fallen from the tree and struck him on the head. I saw it hanging up there yesterday and wondered why someone had not climbed up and gotten it."
Turner recognized the speaker as one of his hunting companions.
"He must have been lying here for a half hour," another said. "Lucky how the phosphorous glow from the roots of that old dead tree led us right to him."
"What time is it?" he managed to ask.
"Ten minutes after seven," one of the party answered.
"She must have died, then," he sighed.
"At exactly seven o'clock." It was Tim Blake's voice, low but steady.
"I'm awfully sorry," Turner said.
"You did your part, son," the old man replied. "You fetched the doctor, all right. He jist got thar a minute too late."
A minute too late! She would have been saved, if he hadn't been a minute too late. And he had tried so hard for her.
Frantically, he tried to remember whether he had sent the doctor to Nancy Blake, or the dying girl. His thoughts were confusing. Then a peaceful sensation fused through his body. He fainted and dropped back to the ground. A voice floated calmly toward him from the direction of the tree, a woman's voice.
"Thank you, so much," it said. "Better luck next time, for us both."
2 RTEXTR*ch
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