"There's where the Palace stood; Neal owns the lot still, and has made two re-buildings on it," he motioned toward a towering office structure as the car slowed at the Clark Street crossing. Then, as they stopped a moment later at the Polk Street Station, he laid a muscular hand upon the door, drove it open and sprang out, leaving Trant inside. The clock in the tower showed just half past eight, and he hurried into the train shed. Ten minutes later he reappeared, leading a plump, almost roly-poly man, with a round face, fiery red from exposure to the weather, who was buttoned from chin to shoe tops in an ulster and wore a fur cap like his own. Behind them with noiseless, woodland tread glided a full-blooded Indian, in corduroy trousers and coat blotched with many forest stains, carrying carefully a long leather gun-case and cartridge belt.
"This is Chapin, Trant," Sheppard introduced them, having evidently spoken briefly of the psychologist to Chapin in the station; "and McLain," he motioned toward the Indian.
He stepped after them into the limousine, and as the car jerked and halted through the crowded city streets back toward his home, he lifted his eyes to the round-faced man opposite him.
"Where was it, Chapin?" he asked abruptly.
"In Bowton's mining shack, Steve."
"What! what!"
"You say the body was found in a miner's cabin, Mr. Chapin," the psychologist broke in, in crisp tones. "Do you mean the miners live in the cabin and carried him in there after he was shot?"
