The youth drew himself rather stiffly erect. “Her features are rather coarse, I think,” he replied. There was a peculiar quality to the tone which caused Bridge to turn a quick look at the boy's face, just as the match flickered and went out. The darkness hid the expression upon Bridge's face, but his conviction that the girl was pretty was unaltered. The light of the match had revealed an oval face surrounded by dark, dishevelled tresses, red, full lips, and large, dark eyes. Further discussion of the young woman was discouraged by a repetition of the clanking of the chain without. Now it was receding along the hallway toward the stairs and presently, to the infinite relief of The Oskaloosa Kid, the two heard it descending to the lower floor. “What was it, do you think?” asked the boy, his voice still trembling upon the verge of hysteria. “I don't know,” replied Bridge. “I've never been a believer in ghosts and I'm not now; but I'll admit that it takes a whole lot of--” He did not finish the sentence for a moan from the bed diverted his attention to the injured girl, toward whom he now turned. As they listened for a repetition of the sound there came another--that of the creaking of the old bed slats as the girl moved upon the mildewed mattress. Dimly, through the darkness, Bridge saw that the victim of the recent murderous assault was attempting to sit up. He moved closer and leaned above her. “I wouldn't exert myself,” he said. “You've just suffered an accident, and it's better that you remain quiet.” “Who are you?” asked the girl, a note of suppressed terror in her voice. “You are not--?” “I am no one you know,” replied Bridge. “My friend and I chanced to be near when you fell from the car--” with that innate refinement which always belied his vocation and his rags Bridge chose not to embarrass the girl by a too intimate knowledge of the thing which had befallen her, preferring to leave to her own volition the making of any explanation she saw fit, or of none--“and we carried you in here out of the storm.” The girl was silent for a moment. “Where is 'here'?” she asked presently. “They drove so fast and it was so dark that I had no idea where we were, though I know that we left the turnpike.” “We are at the old Squibbs place,” replied the man. He could see that the girl was running one hand gingerly over her head and face, so that her next question did not surprise him. “Am I badly wounded?” she asked. “Do you think that I am going to die?” The tremor in her voice was pathetic--it was the voice of a frightened and wondering child. Bridge heard the boy behind him move impulsively forward and saw him kneel on the bed beside the girl. “You are not badly hurt,” volunteered The Oskaloosa Kid. “Bridge couldn't find a mark on you--the bullet must have missed you.”