y sound of his voice must have
given him courage, for now he stepped forward, briskly.

On his right was a show-case in which was displayed a varied assortment
of knives, cutlery, and revolvers with shiny silver or nickel mountings;
then the show-case gave place to a long pine counter, and at the far end
of this was a pair of scales. Near the scales on a low iron standard
rested an oil lamp, but this lamp was not lighted nor were the lamps in
the bracket that hung immediately above the scales, for behind the
counter at this point was a door, the upper half glass, that opened on a
small yard which, in turn, was inclosed by a series of low sheds where
the old merchant stored heavy castings, bar-iron, and the like. Mr.
Shrimplin was shrewdly aware that it was one of McBride's small
economies not to light the lamps by that door so long as he could see to
read the figures on the scales without their artificial aid.

And then Mr. Shrimplin saw a thing that sent the blood leaping from his
heart, while an icy hand seemed to hold him where he stood. On the floor
at his very feet was a strange huddled shape. He lowered his gasolene
torch which he still carried, and the shape resolved itself into the
figure of a man; an old man who lay face down on the floor, his arms
extended as if they had been arrested while he was in the very act of
raising them to his head. The thick shock of snow-white hair, worn
rather long, was discolored just back of the left ear, and from this
Mr. Shrimplin's horrified gaze was able to trace another discoloration
that crossed in a thin red line the dead man's white collar; for the man
was dead past all peradventure.

[Illustration: On the floor at his feet was a strange huddled shape.]

Mr. Shrimplin saw and grasped the meaning of it all in an instant. Then
with a feeble cry he turned and fled down the long room, pursued by a
million phantom terrors. His heart seemed to die within him as he
scurried down that long room; then, mercifully, the keen fresh air
filled his lungs. He fairly leaped through the open door, and again the
storm roared about him with a kind of boisterous fellowship. It smote
him in the face and twisted his shaking legs from under him. Then he
fell, speechless, terrified, into the arms of a passer-by.

CHAPTER FIVE

COLONEL GEORGE HARBISON

Terror-stricken as he was, Mr. Shrimplin recognized the man into whose
arms he had fallen. There was no mistaking the nose, thin an