help of his confederate, presumably the man shot in the Cummings
house.

As the paper fell from Archie's hand the Governor took it up.

"You seem agitated, Archie! You must learn to conceal your feelings!"

When he had read the paragraph he glanced quickly at Archie, whose fork
was beating a queer tattoo on his plate.

"Your work possibly?" murmured the Governor. "Compose yourself. That old
lady over there has her eye on you. I'm afraid you lied to me about the
drug store, for if you'd done any shooting in that neighborhood you
would never have got out of town alive! No!"--he held up his hand
warningly--"tell me nothing! But if we've got a murder behind us, we
shall certainly be most circumspect in our movements. That's all piffle
about Hoky having any confederate except me. And there's not a single
one of the great comradeship on this shore--I know that; no one who
knows the password of the inner door. You interest me more and more,
Archie! I congratulate you on your splendid nerve."

Archie's nerve was nothing he could admire himself, but a second cup of
coffee put warmth into his vitals and he recovered sufficiently to pay
the breakfast check. If it was Congdon he had shot there was still the
hope, encouraged by the newspaper, that the wounded man was in no haste
to report his injury to the police. But Archie found little comfort in
the thought that somewhere in the world there was a man he had shot and
perhaps fatally wounded.

He must conceal his anxious concern from the Governor; for more than
ever he must rely upon his strange friend for assistance in escaping
from the consequences of the duel in the Congdon cottage.

III

"I was thinking," remarked the Governor, after a long reverie, "that it
would be only decent for me to run back to Bailey Harbor and attend poor
Hoky's funeral."

Archie stared aghast.

"Hoky was my friend," the Governor continued. "The newspaper says he's
to be buried in the Potter's Field this afternoon, and it will only set
us back a day in our plans. I can imagine how desperately forlorn the
thing will be. Some parson will say a perfunctory prayer for a poor
devil he believes to have gone straight to the fiery pit and they'll
bury him in a pauper's grave. There will be the usual morbidly curious
crowd hanging round, wagging their heads and whispering. I shall go,
Archie, and you can wait for me. It will take only a few hours and we
can spend the night here and resume ou