The other one is dead as a door nail up at Jim Conley's house. Git ole
Doc James down from Saint Liz. Bring him in here, boys. Where's your
lights? Easy now! Eas-EE!"

Barnes waited to hear no more. His blood seemed to be running ice-cold
as he retreated into the room and began scrambling for his clothes.
The thing he feared had come to pass. Disaster had overtaken her in
that wild, senseless dash up the mountain road. He was cursing half
aloud as he dressed, cursing the fool who drove that machine and who
now was perhaps dying down there in the tap-room. "The other one is
dead as a door nail," kept running through his head,--"the other one."

The rumble of voices and the shuffling of feet continued, indistinct
but laden with tragedy. The curious hush of catastrophe seemed to top
the confusion that infected the place, inside and out. Barnes found
his electric pocket torch and dressed hurriedly, though not fully, by
its constricted light. As he was pulling on his heavy walking shoes, a
head was inserted through the half open door, and an excited voice
called out:

"You awake? Good work! Hustle along, will you? No more sleep to-night,
old chap. Man dying downstairs. Shot smack through the lungs. Get a
move--"

"Shot?" exclaimed Barnes.

"So they say," replied the agitated Mr. Dillingford, entering the
room. He had slipped on his trousers and was then in the act of
pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. His unlaced shoes gaped
broadly; the upper part of his body was closely encased in a once blue