Dixon could not see how there could be any doubt of it.  The constables who had rushed in upon the gang while they were still looting the express car—­the brakesman having managed to get away and convey the alarm to Kamloops—­remembered seeing an old man with white hair, apparently lame, at the rear of the more active thieves, and posted as sentinel.  He had been the first to give warning of the police approach, and had levelled his revolver at the foremost constable but had missed his shot.  In the free firing which had followed nobody exactly knew what had happened.  One of the attacking force, Constable Brown, had fallen, and while his comrades were attempting to save him, the thieves had dropped down the steep bank of the river close by, into a boat waiting for them, and got off.  The constable was left dead upon the ground, and not far from him lay the old man, also lifeless.  But when they came to examine the bodies, while the constable was shot through the head, the other had received nothing but the trifling wound Dixon had already pointed out.

Anderson listened to the story in silence.  Then with a last long look at the rigid features below him, he replaced the covering.  Passing on to the other table, he raised the sheet from the face of a splendid young Englishman, whom he had last seen the week before at Regina; an English public-school boy of the manliest type, full of hope for himself, and of enthusiasm, both for Canada and for the fine body of men in which he had been just promoted.  For the first time a stifled groan escaped from Anderson’s lips.  What hand had done this murder?

They left the shed.  Anderson inquired what doctor had been sent for.  He recognised the name given as that of a Kamloops man whom he knew and respected; and he went on to look for him at the hotel.

For some time he and the doctor paced a trail beside the line together.  Among other facts that Anderson got from this conversation, he learnt that the American authorities had been telegraphed to, and that a couple of deputy sheriffs were coming to assist the Canadian police.  They were expected the following morning, when also the coroner’s inquest would be held.

As to Anderson’s own share in the interview, when the two men parted, with a silent grasp of the hand, the Doctor had nothing to say to the bystanders, except that Mr. Anderson would have some evidence to give on the morrow, and that, for himself, he was not at liberty to divulge what had passed between them.

It was by this time late.  Anderson shut himself up in his room at the hotel; but among the groups lounging at the bar or in the neighbourhood of the station excitement and discussion ran high.  The envelope addressed to Anderson, Anderson’s own demeanour since his arrival on the scene—­with the meaning of both conjecture was busy.

* * * * *

Towards midnight a train arrived from Field.  A messenger from the station knocked at Anderson’s door with a train letter.  Anderson locked the door again behind the man who had brought it, and stood looking at it a moment in silence.  It was from Lady Merton.  He opened it slowly, took it to the small deal table, which held a paraffin lamp, and sat down to read it.