hugging his sides. Barry growled:

"You're a fine doctor! Just when you had me cured, you quit! I'd
forgotten I even had a broken arm."

"So?" Ba'tiste straightened. "You like her, eh? You like the petite
Medaine?"

"How can I help it?"

"_Bon_! Good! I like you to like Medaine. You no like Thayer?"

"Less every minute."

"Bon! I no like heem. He try to take Pierre's place with Medaine.
And Pierre, he was strong and tall and straight. Pierre, he could
smile--_bon_! Like you can smile. You look like my Pierre!" came
frankly.

"Thanks, Ba'tiste." Barry said it in wholehearted manner. "You don't
know how grateful I am for a little true friendliness."

"Grateful? Peuff! You? Bah, you shall go back, and they will ask who
helped you when you were hurt, and you--you will not even remember what
is the name."

"Hardly that." Barry pulled thoughtfully at the covers. "In the first
place, I'm not going back, and in the second, I haven't enough true
friends to forget so easily. I--I--" Then his jaw dropped and he lay
staring ahead, out to the shadows beneath the pines and the stalwart
cross which kept watch there. "I--"

"You act funny again. You act like you act when I talk about my
Julienne. Why you do eet?"

Barry Houston did not answer at once. Old scenes were flooding through
his brain, old agonies that reflected themselves upon his features, old
sorrows, old horrors. His eyes grew cold and lifeless, his hands white
and drawn, his features haggard. The chuckle left the lips of Ba'tiste
Renaud. He moved swiftly, almost sinuously to the bed, and gripped the
younger man by his uninjured arm. His eyes came close to Barry
Houston, his voice was sharp, tense, commanding:

"You! Why you act like that when I talk about murder? Why you get
pale, huh? Why you get pale?"

CHAPTER V

The gaze of Ba'tiste Renaud was strained as he asked the question, his
manner tense, excited. Through sheer determination, Barry forced a
smile and pulled himself back to at least a semblance of composure.

"Maybe you know the reason already--through Thayer. But if you
don't--Ba'tiste, how much of it do you mean when you say you are a
man's friend?"

"Ba'teese may joke," came quietly, "but Ba'teese no lie. You look like
my Pierre--you help where it has been lonesome. You are my frien'."

"Then I know you are not going to ask me for something that hurts in
telling. And at least, I can give you