sat down. Seeing that no one noticed him, he filled a glass for himself with a trembling hand.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed—thirty centuries during which no one spoke. Then they heard the swift clatter of a horse’s hoofs, the whir of wheels, and a buggy pulled up before the door. Thomas had it open on the instant and two men walked in.
“What is it, Delroy?” asked one of them. “Nothing serious I—ah!” he added, as his eyes fell upon the cot.
He went to it quickly, the other following; touched the hideous wounds, looked into the eyes, felt the temples.
“He’s dead,” he said, at last; “has been dead two or three hours, I should say. His skull is crushed—fairly beaten in. It’s your gardener, Graham, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Delroy answered.
The doctor stepped back.
“I turn the case over to you, Heffelbower,” he said. “It’s in your province now. Mr. Delroy, this is Mr. Heffelbower, the coroner.”
Heffelbower bowed. He was a little, stout man, bald-headed and with wide-open blue eyes that stared like a doll’s. Primarily, he was a saloon keeper, but had been elected coroner as a reward for his valuable services to his party. He possessed a certain native shrewdness which fitted him to some extent for the office; also a lack of nerves and a familiarity with crime which might often be of service.
“I presume,” he began slowly, “t’at t’is man wasn’t killed here in his bed?”
“No,” said Delroy, “we found him lying out on
