When he turned on the lights, however, he was easier in his mind, for there was the sleeping figure he had hoped to find.
In a moment, however, his eyes fell upon a heap of clothing lying across a chair near the head of the bed.

Those were not the clothes Fremont had worn.

These were soiled and torn.

Whose were they, then, and how was it that they were there?
He shook the sleeper lightly and a dust-marked face was lifted from the sheltering bed-clothes.

But the face was not that of Fremont, but of Jimmie McGraw.