The court then proceeded to the identification of the dead robber.  The coroner, a rancher who bred the best horses in the district, called first upon two strangers in plain clothes, who had arrived by the first train from the South that morning.  They proved to be the two officers from Nevada.  They had already examined the body, and they gave clear and unhesitating evidence, identifying the old man as one Alexander McEwen, well known to the police of the silver-mining State as a lawless and dangerous character.  He had been twice in jail, and had been the associate of the notorious Bill Symonds in one or two criminal affairs connected with “faked” claims and the like.  The elder of the two officers in particular drew a vivid and damning picture of the man’s life and personality, of the cunning with which he had evaded the law, and the ruthlessness with which he had avenged one or two private grudges.

“We have reason to suppose,” said the American officer finally, “that McEwen was not originally a native of the States.  We believe that he came from Dawson City or the neighbourhood about ten years ago, and that he crossed the border in consequence of a mysterious affair—­which has never been cleared up—­in which a rich German gentleman, Baron von Aeschenbach, disappeared, and has not been heard of since.  Of that, however, we have no proof, and we cannot supply the court with any information as to the man’s real origin and early history.  But we are prepared to swear that the body we have seen this morning is that of Alexander McEwen, who for some years past has been well known to us, now in one camp, now in another, of the Comstock district.”

The American police officer resumed his seat.  George Anderson, who was to the right of the coroner, had sat, all through this witness’s evidence, bending forward, his eyes on the ground, his hands clasped between his knees.  There was something in the rigidity of his attitude, which gradually compelled the attention of the onlookers, as though the perception gained ground that here—­in that stillness—­those bowed shoulders—­lay the real interest of this sordid outrage, which had so affronted the pride of Canada’s great railway.

The coroner rose.  He briefly expressed the thanks of the court to the Nevada State authorities for having so promptly supplied the information in their possession in regard to this man McEwen.  He would now ask Mr. George Anderson, of the C.P.R., whether he could in any way assist the court in this investigation.  An empty envelope, fully addressed to Mr. George Anderson, Ginnell’s Boarding House, Laggan, Alberta, had, strangely enough, been found in McEwen’s pocket.  Could Mr. Anderson throw any light upon the matter?