Barnes leaned over and spoke to him in French. The dark, pain-stricken eyes closed, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head signified that he did not understand. Evidently he had acquired only a few of the simple French expressions. Barnes had a slight knowledge of Spanish and Italian, and tried again with no better results. German was his last resort, and he knew he would fail once more, for the man obviously was not Teutonic. The bloody lips parted, however, and the eyes opened with a piteous, appealing expression in their depths. It was apparent that there was something he wanted to say, something he had to say before he died. He gasped a dozen words or more in a tongue utterly unknown to Barnes, who bent closer to catch the feeble effort. It was he who now shook his head; with a groan the sufferer closed his eyes in despair. He choked and coughed violently an instant later. "Get some water and a towel," cried Miss Thackeray, tremulously. She was very white, but still clung to the man's hand. "Be quick! Behind the bar." Then she turned to Jones. "Don't call my father. He can't stand the sight of blood," she said. Barnes unbuttoned the coat and revealed the blood-soaked white shirt. "Better leave this to me," he said in her ear. "There's nothing you can do. He's done for. Please go away." "Oh, I sha'n't faint--at least, not yet. Poor fellow! I've seen him upstairs and wondered who he was. Is he really going to die?" "Looks bad," said Barnes, gently opening the shirt front. Several of the craning men turned away suddenly. "Can't you understand him?" demanded Putnam Jones, from the opposite side. "No. Did you get the doctor?" "He's on the way by this time. He's got a little automobile. Ought to be here in ten or fifteen minutes." "Who is he, Mr. Jones?" "He is registered as Andrew Paul, from New York. That's all I know. The other man put his name down as Albert Roon. He seemed to be the boss and this man a sort of servant, far as I could make out. They never talked much and seldom came downstairs. They had their meals in their room. Bacon served them. Where is Bacon? Where the hell--oh, the mattress. Now, we'll lift him up gentle-like while you fellers slip it under him. Easy now. Brace up, my lad, we--we won't hurt you. Lordy! Lordy! I'm sorry--Gosh! I thought he was gone!" He wiped his brow with a shaking hand. "There is nothing we can do," said Barnes, "except try to stanch the flow of blood. He is bleeding inwardly, I'm afraid. It's a clean wound, Mr. Jones. Like a rifle shot, I should say." "That's just what it is," said one of the men, a tall woodsman. "The feller who did it was a dead shot, you c'n bet on that. He got t' other man square through the heart." "Lordy, but this will raise a rumpus," groaned the landlord. "We'll have detectives an'--" "I guess they got what was comin' to 'em," said another of the men.