c query.

"No, sir, only just that once."

"But you are sure this is the man you saw at Ogden?"

Mellen turned uneasily, unhappily, and looked again into the still and
placid face. That meeting was on a glaring day in June. This was a
clouded afternoon in late October and nearly five months had slipped
away. Yet he had heard the solemn story of murder and had never, up to
now, imagined there could be a doubt. In mute patience the sleeping face
seemed appealing to him to speak for it, to own it, to stand between it
and the possibility of its being buried friendless, unrecognized.

"It's--it's him or his twin brother, sir," said Mellen.

"One question more. Had you heard before you came here who was killed?"

"Yes, sir. They said it was Foster."

And now, with pencils swiftly plying, several young civilians were
edging to the door.

James Farnham was called, and a sturdy young man, with keen,
weather-beaten face, stepped into the little open space before the
table. Three fingers were gone from the hand he instinctively held up,
as though expecting to be sworn. His testimony was decidedly a
disappointment. Farnham said that he was brakeman of that train and
would know some of that squad of recruits anywhere, but this one,--well,
he remembered talking to one man at Ogden, a tall, fine-looking young
feller something very like this one. This might have been him or it
might not. He couldn't even be sure that this was one of the party. He
really didn't know. But there was a chap called Murray that he'd
remember easy enough anywhere.

And then it was after four and the race for the Esmeralda began. It was
utterly unnecessary, said certain bystanders, to question any more
members of the guard, but the provost-marshal did, and not until 4.30
did he deign to send for the most important witness of all, the brother
of the young girl to whom the deceased had been so devotedly attached.
They had not long to wait, for Sandy Ray happened to be almost at the
door.

The throng seemed to take another long breath, and then to hold it as,
the few preliminaries answered, Mr. Ray was bidden to look at the face
of the deceased. Pale, composed, yet with infinite sadness of mien, the
young officer, campaign hat in hand, stepped over to the trestle, and
the steward again slowly withdrew the light covering, again exposing
that placid face.

The afternoon sunshine was waning. The bright glare of the mid-day hours
had given place within