had again shown
itself about his lips, and was creeping slowly over his face.

"It's the first as I've seen in these parts for many a year," said
another. "Our county ain't pop'lar with that kind," he added, grimly.

"He took a mighty oncomfortable time o' year fur trampin'," said a
blear-eyed vagabond near the stove. "I've ben meditatin' somethin' o'
the kind myself, but reckon I'll wait fur warm weather. My
constitution is delikit."

"_Don't_ wait for warm weather, Shanks," said Buckey himself, leaning
comfortably across the counter. "They'll make it warm enough for
_you_, whenever ye go!"

At the laugh which followed this sally, Dixon started and looked
around him, in a dazed sort of way. The laugh died out suddenly, and
the men sank into a shame-faced silence, but even now he did not
speak.

"They's somethin' in his breast pocket, Square," said one of them,
bending over the body. "Somethin' like a book, or a----"

"Take it out, Slater," said Dixon, in a voice at which all present
started, and looked at him curiously.

The man did as ordered, producing from the tattered pocket a small,
soiled blank-book, whose pages appeared to be closely written. He
handed it to Dixon, who took it mechanically, and, opening it,
appeared to glance at the contents at random.

Those nearest him saw his fingers close suddenly upon the book, and
heard the sharp indrawn breath which he shut back between his teeth.
He put his hand to his head again, and held it there while his eyes
swept over the group of respectful but inquisitive faces.

"There is something here," he said, holding the book before him, and
speaking in the voice which had once before made them start--"there is
something here I would like to look into. Let the--the body lie here
until I come back."

There was a murmur of assent, and he turned and left the store. They
saw him stand a moment on the step outside, his face toward home. Then
he turned in the opposite direction and disappeared.

Dixon entered his office, locked the door, and flung himself into his
chair, the little book open before him. The ashen ring had widened
until his whole face was like that of the dead. Not a muscle of his
rigid face stirred as with desperate eyes he read on and on. Only the
faint rustle of the leaves as he turned the pages, and his heavy
breathing broke the silence. And this is what he read:

THE DEAD MAN'S STORY.

_W----, 187