On his right was a show-case in which was displayed a varied assortment of knives, cutlery, and revolvers with shiny silver or nickel mountings; then the show-case gave place to a long pine counter, and at the far end of this was a pair of scales.  Near the scales on a low iron standard rested an oil lamp, but this lamp was not lighted nor were the lamps in the bracket that hung immediately above the scales, for behind the counter at this point was a door, the upper half glass, that opened on a small yard which, in turn, was inclosed by a series of low sheds where the old merchant stored heavy castings, bar-iron, and the like.  Mr. Shrimplin was shrewdly aware that it was one of McBride’s small economies not to light the lamps by that door so long as he could see to read the figures on the scales without their artificial aid.

And then Mr. Shrimplin saw a thing that sent the blood leaping from his heart, while an icy hand seemed to hold him where he stood.  On the floor at his very feet was a strange huddled shape.  He lowered his gasolene torch which he still carried, and the shape resolved itself into the figure of a man; an old man who lay face down on the floor, his arms extended as if they had been arrested while he was in the very act of raising them to his head.  The thick shock of snow-white hair, worn rather long, was discolored just back of the left ear, and from this Mr. Shrimplin’s horrified gaze was able to trace another discoloration that crossed in a thin red line the dead man’s white collar; for the man was dead past all peradventure.

[Illustration:  On the floor at his feet was a strange huddled shape.]

Mr. Shrimplin saw and grasped the meaning of it all in an instant.  Then with a feeble cry he turned and fled down the long room, pursued by a million phantom terrors.  His heart seemed to die within him as he scurried down that long room; then, mercifully, the keen fresh air filled his lungs.  He fairly leaped through the open door, and again the storm roared about him with a kind of boisterous fellowship.  It smote him in the face and twisted his shaking legs from under him.  Then he fell, speechless, terrified, into the arms of a passer-by.

CHAPTER FIVE

COLONEL GEORGE HARBISON

Terror-stricken as he was, Mr. Shrimplin recognized the man into whose arms he had fallen.  There was no mistaking the nose, thin and aquiline, the bristling mustache and white imperial, the soft gray slouch hat, or the military cloak that half concealed the stalwart form of its wearer.

Colonel George Harbison, much astonished and in utter ignorance of the cause of Mr. Shrimplin’s alarm, took that gentleman by the collar and deftly jerked him into an erect posture.

“My dear sir!” the colonel began in a tone of mild expostulation, evidently thinking he had a drunken man to deal with.  “My dear sir, do be more careful—­” then he recognized the lamplighter.  “Well, upon my word, Shrimp, what’s gone wrong with you?” he demanded, with military asperity.