III.

The clouds hang overhead like a murky canopy. The wind is sighing itself to sleep. The rain has ceased, but large drops drip dismally from the great branches that lately sheltered Arthur Pearson's death-bed.

Beside the rocks, three men are standing. It is three o'clock in the morning. Two of the three men bend down to examine something which the third, lighted by a lantern, has just taken from the wet ground at his feet.

It is a small thing to excite so much earnest scrutiny; only the half burned fragment of a lucifer match.

"Boys," says Walter Parks, solemnly, swinging the lantern upon his arm and carefully wrapping the bit of match in a paper as he speaks, "poor Pearson was never killed by lightning. That sear upon his forehead was made by the simple application of a burning match. _I've_ seen men killed by lightning."

"But you said--"

"No matter what I said _then_, Joe; what I _now_ say to you and Menard is _the truth_. You have promised to keep what I am about to tell you a secret, and to act according to my advice. Menard, Blakesly, _Arthur Pearson has been foully murdered_!"

"No!"

"Parks, you are mad!"

"You will believe the evidence of your own senses, boys. I am going to prove what I a.s.sert."

"But who? how?--"

"Who?--ah, that's the question! There are ten men of us; if the guilty party belongs to our train, we will ferret him out if possible. If we were to gather all our party here, and show them how poor Pearson met his death, the a.s.sa.s.sin, if he is among us, would be warned, and perhaps escape."

"True."

"Boys, I believe that the a.s.sa.s.sin _is_ among us; but I have not the faintest suspicion as to his ident.i.ty. We are ten men brought together by circ.u.mstances. We three have known each other back there in the mining camps. The others are acquaintances of the road; good fellows so far as we know them: but nine of us ten are innocent men; _one is a murderer_! Come, now, and let me prove what I am saying."

As men who feel themselves dreaming; silently, slowly, with anxious faces, they follow their leader to the wagon where the dead man lies alone.

"Get into the wagon, boys; here, at this end, and move softly."

It is done and the three men crouch close together about the body of the dead.

"Hold the lantern, Joe. There, Menard lift his head."

Silently, wonderingly, they obey him.

Then Walter Parks removes the cap from the lifeless head, and shudderingly parts away the thick hair from about the crown.

"Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look, both of you; do you see _that_?"

They bend closer; the lantern's ray strikes upon something tiny and bright.

"My G.o.d!" cries Joe Blakesly, letting the lantern fall and turning away his face.

"Parks, what--_what_ is it?"

"A _nail_! Touch it, boys; see the h.e.l.lish cleverness of the crime; think what the criminal must be, to drive that nail home with one blow while poor Pearson lay sleeping, and then to rearrange the thick hair so skillfully. That was before the storm, I feel sure. If we had found him sooner, there might have been no mark upon his forehead. Then we, in our ignorance, would have called it heart disease, and poor Pearson would have had no avenger. After the storm, the cunning villain crept back, struck a match, and applied it to his victim's temple. And but for an accident, we would all have agreed that he was killed by a lightning-stroke."

Menard lays the head gently back upon the damp hay and asks, shudderingly:

"How did you discover it, Parks?"

"In examining the sear, you may remember, I brushed the hair away from the temple. As I ran my fingers through it, I touched--that."

They look from one to the other silently for a moment, and then Joe Blakesly says:

"Has he been robbed?"

"Let us see;" Menard says, "he wore a money-belt, I know. Look for it, Parks."

Parks examines the body, and shakes his head.

"It's gone; has been cut away. The belt was worn next the flesh; the print of it is here plainly visible. The belt has been taken, and the clothing replaced!"

"What coolness! what cunning! Shall we ever run the fellow down, Parks?"

"_Yes!_ Boys, you know why I am leaving the mountains. I am going home to England, to be near my father who must die soon. I am not a poor man; I shall some day be richer still. If _we_ fail to find this murderer, I shall put the matter in the hands of the detectives, _and I will never give it up_. Arthur Pearson met his death while traveling for safety with a party which calls me its leader, and _I will be his avenger_! It may be in one year, or two, or twenty; it may take a fortune, and a lifetime; _but Arthur Pearson shall be avenged_!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look both of you; do you see _that_?"--page 19.]

CHAPTER I.

"STARS OF THE FORCE."

"Yes, sir," said Policeman No. 46, with an air of condescending courtesy, "this _is_ the office."

It is characteristic of the metropolitan policeman; he is not a man to occupy middle ground. If he is not gruffly discourteous, he is pretty certain to be found patronizingly polite.

Number 46 had just breakfasted heartily, and had swallowed a large schooner of beer at the expense of the bar keeper, so he beamed benignly upon the tall, brown-faced, grey-bearded stranger who had just asked, "Is this the office of the City Detective Agency?"

"This _is_ the office, sir; up two flights and turn to your left."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Is this the office of the City Detective Agency?"--page 22.]

The stranger shifted his position slightly, glanced up and down the street, drew a step nearer the policeman, and asked:

"Is it a large force?"

"Well, I should say!"

"I suppose you know some of them pretty well?"