His eyes were glaring, his hands upraised and clutched.

"No! Murder! Murder, mon ami! Murder! Lost Wing--he Medaine's Indian--he find her--so! In a heap on the floor--and a bullet through her brain.

And the money we save, the ten thousan' dollar--eet is gone! Murder!" A shudder went over the young man on the bed.

His face blanched.

His lips lost their color.