othing, and then to
bend nearer and hold his carbide close to some object which Fairchild
could not see. At last he rose and with old, white features,
approached his partner.

"The appearances are against us," came quietly. "There 's a 'ole in
'is skull that a jury 'll say was made by a single jack. It 'll seem
like some one 'ad killed 'im, and then caved in the mine with a box of
powder. But 'e 's gone, Boy--your father--I mean. 'E can't defend
'imself. We 've got to take 'is part."

"Maybe--" Fairchild was grasping at the final straw--"maybe it's not
the person we believe it to be at all. It might be somebody else--who
had come in here and set off a charge of powder by accident and--"

But the shaking of Harry's head stifled the momentary ray of hope.

"No. I looked. There was a watch--all covered with mold and mildewed.
I pried it open. It's got Larsen's name inside!"

CHAPTER XIV

Again there was a long moment of silence, while Harry stood pawing at
his mustache and while Robert Fairchild sought to summon the strength
to do the thing which was before him. It had been comparatively easy
to make resolutions while there still was hope. It was a far different
matter now. All the soddenness of the old days had come back to him,
ghosts which would not be driven away; memories of a time when he was
the grubbing, though willing slave of a victim of fear,--of a man whose
life had been wrecked through terror of the day when intruders would
break their way through the debris, and when the discovery would be
made. And it had remained for Robert Fairchild, the son, to find the
hidden secret, for him to come upon the thing which had caused the
agony of nearly thirty years of suffering, for him to face the
alternative of again placing that gruesome find into hiding, or to
square his shoulders before the world and take the consequences.
Murder is not an easy word to hear, whether it rests upon one's own
shoulders, or upon the memory of a person beloved. And right now
Robert Fairchild felt himself sagging beneath the weight of the
accusation.

But there was no time to lose in making his decision. Beside him stood
Harry, silent, morose. Before him,--Fairchild closed his eyes in an
attempt to shut out the sight of it. But still it was there, the
crumpled heap of tattered clothing and human remains, the awry, heavy
shoes still shielding the fleshless bones of the feet. He turned
blindly, his hands grop