"I'm dyin'!" he croaked. "I say I'm dyin'." And with the next breath he muttered a vicious curse upon "the cops." But, before the doctor could move out of his tracks, Joan Sheridan had again come flying from the east wing of the house and clutched his arm. At the moment of her appearance she saw Tish. "Those shots--what do they mean?" she panted. "What--what has happened now?" "We have caught the murderer," answered Doctor Bushnell, gently pushing her away. "The crook who killed Kirklan's wife was in hiding on the third floor." Another groan came from Haskins. "There was some shooting; the man's desperately wounded. I am going to see now. Go back to your room, Joan; you've had enough horror." But the girl crept to the top of the stairs after him and stared down with a shudder. "I--I can't understand!" she whispered. "They say that man killed her. I--I can't understand!" she whispered. "They say that man killed her. I can't understand!" Had Wiggly Price been privileged to hear those whispered words of Joan's it would have added fresh fuel to his smoldering suspicion that she knew more about the death of Helen Gilmore than she was willing to tell. The newspaper man had hurried down the stairs and, elbowing the butler out of the way, bent over Haskins. A moment later Doctor Bushnell had joined him, Tish close behind. The doctor shook his head gravely, as he saw the bloodstained saliva about Haskins' lips. "Internal hemorrhage," he murmured. "I don't think there's much chance for him." As if to verify this diagnosis, Haskins gave a gasping cough, and the crimson foam became a trickle. "Ain'tcha gonna call a priest?" he murmured. "I'm dyin', I tell you--dyin'." "Keep him alive, doc, until I get a full confession out of him," urged Sergeant Tish. "Haskins, come through; make a clean breast of----" "No questions for a moment," broke in the physician. "Let him be quiet until I see what can be done for him. No matter what he's done, he's entitled to the best a doctor can give him. It's barely possible that an immediate operation----" Don Haskins made a half-sobbing, half-growling protest. "Nix on the--operation stuff. It wouldn't do me no good--anyhow; I tell you that I'm bleedin' to death--inside of me." Doctor Bushnell jerked his head toward Wiggly. "Help me with him," he ordered. "We'll have to get him somewhere, so that I can see what can be done for him." And to the butler: "Bates, up the stairs quick--get my bag. It's on the floor in the hall--near the other stairs. And, Bates, where can we take this man?" "There are but two guest rooms, sir; one Mr. Sarbella occupied, and the other--the body has been placed there." "Then it will have to be Sarbella's room," declared the doctor. "Help me up with him, Mr. Price. Careful, Haskins; the more exertion the more the bleeding and the slimmer your chances."