erly unaware of the gambler's
approach, but now conscious of it he dropped in a miserable heap on the
door-sill, while the white and unfamiliar world reeled before his
bleached blue eyes; it was the very drunkenness of fear.

"Howdy, Colonel," said the gambler, as he gave Harbison a half-military
salute.

He admired the colonel, who had once threatened to horsewhip him if he
ever permitted his nephew, Watt, to enter his rooms.

"Come here, Andy!" ordered the colonel briefly.

"God's sake, Colonel!" gasped the wretched little lamplighter,
struggling to his feet, "don't leave me here--"

"What's wrong, Colonel?" asked Gilmore.

"Archibald McBride's been murdered!"

Mr. Gilmore took the butt of the half-smoked cigar from between his
teeth, tossed it into the gutter, and pushing past Mr. Shrimplin entered
the room.

Colonel Harbison, a step or two in advance of his companion, led the way
to the rear of the store. The colonel paused, and Gilmore gained a place
at his elbow.

"You are sure he's dead?" questioned the gambler.

Kneeling beside the crumpled figure Gilmore slipped his hand in between
the body and the floor; his manner was cool and businesslike. After a
moment he withdrew his hand and looked, up into the colonel's face.

"Well?" asked the colonel.

"Oh, he's dead, all right!" Gilmore glanced about him, and the colonel's
eyes following, they both discovered that the door leading into the side
yard was partly open.

"He went that way, eh, Colonel?"

"It's altogether likely," agreed the veteran.

"It's a nasty business!" said Gilmore reflectively.

"Shocking!" snapped the colonel.

"He took big chances," commented the gambler, "living the way he did."
He spoke of the dead man.

"Poor old man!" said the colonel pityingly.

What had it all amounted to, those chances for the sake of gain, which
Gilmore had in mind.

"He can't have been dead very long," said Gilmore. "Did _you_ find him,
Colonel?" he asked as he stood erect.

"No, Shrimplin found him."

Again the two men looked about them. On the floor by the counter at
their right was a heavy sledge. Gilmore called Harbison's attention to
this.

"I guess the job was done with that," he said.

"Possibly," agreed Harbison.

Gilmore picked up the sledge and examined it narrowly.

"Yes, you can see, there is blood on it." He handed it to Harbison, who
stepped under the nearest lamp with the clumsy weapon in his hand.

"You are right, And