ndertaker's wagon drew up to the door.
The murdered man was placed on a stretcher and covered with a black
cloth, then four men raised the stretcher and for the last time the old
merchant passed out under his creaking sign into the night.

"I've agreed to watch at the house, Andy," said Colonel Harbison. "I
want you and Watt to come with me."

The gambler lighted a fresh cigar and the three men left the store.

On the Square groups of men discussed the murder. Though none was
permitted to enter the store, the windows afforded occasional glimpses
of the little group of officials within, until a policeman closed and
fastened the heavy wooden shutters. Then the crowd slowly and
reluctantly dispersed.

Meanwhile the town marshal, under cover of the excitement, had descended
on the gas house where tramps congregated of winter nights for warmth
and shelter. Here he found shivering over a can of beer, two homeless
wretches, whom he arrested as suspicious characters. After this,
official activity languished, for the official mind could think of
nothing more to do.

With the scattering of the crowd on the Square, Shrimplin climbed into
his cart and drove off home. The smother of wind-driven snow still
enveloped the, town, the very air seemed charged with mystery and
horror, and before the little lamplighter's eyes was ever the haunting
vision of the murdered man.

He drove into the alley back of his house, unhitched Bill and led him
into the barn. His torch made the gloom of the place more terrifying
than utter darkness would have been. Suppose the murderer should be
hiding there! Mr. Shrimplin's mind fastened on the hay-mow as the most
likely place of concealment, and the cold sweat ran from him in icy
streams; he could, almost see the murderer's evil eyes fixed upon him
from the blackness above. But at last Bill was stripped of his harness,
and the little lamplighter, escaping from the barn with its fancied
terrors, hurried across his small back yard to his kitchen door.

"Well!" said Mrs. Shrimplin, as he entered the room. "I was beginning to
wonder if you'd ever think it worth your while to come home!"

"What's the bell been ringing for?" asked Custer. Mrs. Shrimplin was
seated by the table, which was littered with her sewing; Custer occupied
his usual chair by the stove, and it was evident that they knew nothing
of the tragedy in which Mr. Shrimplin had played so important, and as he
now felt, so worthy a part.