“I’s hung’y,” she announced, with juvenile directness. “I wan’ my suppah. Nona just sits an’ cwies. Make her ’top, Doc.” The girl--Rock decided she could be no more than twenty-one or two--gathered the child up and set her on a chair. “Sit right there till I come back, honey,” she murmured. “Then you shall have your supper.” The fair-haired, blue-eyed mite obeyed without question. The girl beckoned Rock. She walked to the other end of the room, through a doorway. Rock followed her. He found himself in a narrow hallway that bisected the house. She opened a door off that and motioned him to enter. He found himself in a woman’s room. No man ever surrounded himself with such dainty knickknacks. It was an amazing contrast to the bare utility of the kitchen. A man lay stretched at full length on the white counterpane that covered the bed--a dead man. One glance told Rock that. Crimson marked the pillow that held his head, and crimson speckled the yellow and blue of a hooked rug on the floor. A hand basin, with crimson-stained cloths in it, stood on a chair. “Look at him!” the girl whispered. “Look closely at his face!” But Rock was already looking. He needed no prompting. He stared. The amazed certainty came to him that, except for very minor differences, he might well have been looking at his own corpse. * * * * * Yet he was alive, never more so. And he had no brothers, nor indeed any kin that so resembled him. Coincidence, he reflected. Such things were. No great mystery that, of the millions of men cast in the image of their Maker, the mold for two should be strangely alike. He did not now wonder at the shock he must have given this girl, when he stood in the doorway, the image of the man dead in her room. But Rock passed at once to a more practical consideration. The man had been shot. His bared chest showed a blue-rimmed puncture. “Do you wonder?” the girl’s voice said in his ear. “You see the resemblance. It is uncanny. You could pass for him anywhere. My heart stood still when I saw you in the doorway.” Rock nodded. He put his hand on the body. The flesh was still soft, not yet cold. “He hasn’t been dead long,” he remarked. The girl looked down at the dead man and reached one slim-fingered hand to smooth the brown hair back from his forehead with a caressing gesture. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “About half an hour,” she whispered. “It was like lightning out of the blue. We were up the river a couple of miles. He had separated from me to look at some cattle around the bend. I heard a shot--just one. I didn’t think anything of that until he came back to me, holding himself on his horse by main strength, dying in his saddle. He couldn’t talk. He never did speak again. I got him home. He died in a little while.” “Where are the other men?” Rock asked. “There are no other men.” “Any neighbors?”