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Winch went promptly to work, and, in his rough-and-ready fashion, did a good clean job of bandaging a simple wound. A raw wound like that must of necessity be intensely painful; yet Timber-Wolf's quiet and regular breathing never altered once, and not so much as the breadth of a hair did the muscular back flinch. They had just gotten the torn shirts lapped over into place and the coat thrown over Standing's shoulders, and his hat picked up from the floor for him, when a man walking heavily came down the hall and stopped at the door, knocking sharply.

"Who is it?" demanded Winch.

"It's me, Taggart. Is Standing all right?"

Bruce Standing himself, holding himself very erect, his head well up and his eyes cold and hard, opened the door.

"So the devil refused to take you, after all," he grumbled. "They had it reported that Deveril had killed you. At that, it looks as though he'd come close to doing a good job of it."

For Jim Taggart's face, too, was white, and there was a broad band about his head, stained in one spot near the left temple.