“My God, Colonel, if he ain’t lying there dead—­” a shudder passed through the little man; he was well-nigh dumb in his terror.  “And I stumbled right on to him there on the floor!” he cried with a gasp.

He collapsed again, and again the colonel, whose gloved hand still retained its hold on his collar, set him on his trembling legs with admirable expertness.

“I tell you he’s dead!” cried Mr. Shrimplin, lost to everything but that one dreadful fact.

“Who’s dead?” demanded the colonel.  “Stand up, man, don’t fall about like that or you may do yourself some injury!” for Mr. Shrimplin seemed about to collapse once more.

“Old man McBride, Colonel—­if he ain’t dead I wish I may never see death!”

“Dead!” cried the colonel.  “Archibald McBride dead!” He released his hold on Mr. Shrimplin and took a step toward the door; Shrimplin, however, detained him with a shaking hand, though he was calmer now.

“Colonel, you’d better be careful, he’s lying there in a pool of blood; some one’s killed him for his money!  How do we know the murderer ain’t there!” This conjecture was made to the empty street, for Colonel Harbison had entered the store.

“Why does he want to leave me like that!” wailed Shrimplin, and his panic threatened a return.

He dragged himself to the door.  Here he paused, since he could not bring himself to enter, for before his eyes was the ghastly vision of that old man huddled on the blood-stained floor.  He heard the colonel’s steps echo down the long room, and when their sound ceased he knew he was standing beside the dead man.  After what seemed an age of waiting the steps sounded again, and a moment later the colonel’s tall form filled the doorway.

“Andy!” said the colonel.

Mr. Shrimplin turned with a start.  At his back within reach of his hand stood Andy Gilmore.  He had been utterly unaware of the gambler’s approach, but now conscious of it he dropped in a miserable heap on the door-sill, while the white and unfamiliar world reeled before his bleached blue eyes; it was the very drunkenness of fear.

“Howdy, Colonel,” said the gambler, as he gave Harbison a half-military salute.

He admired the colonel, who had once threatened to horsewhip him if he ever permitted his nephew, Watt, to enter his rooms.

“Come here, Andy!” ordered the colonel briefly.

“God’s sake, Colonel!” gasped the wretched little lamplighter, struggling to his feet, “don’t leave me here—­”

“What’s wrong, Colonel?” asked Gilmore.

“Archibald McBride’s been murdered!”

Mr. Gilmore took the butt of the half-smoked cigar from between his teeth, tossed it into the gutter, and pushing past Mr. Shrimplin entered the room.

Colonel Harbison, a step or two in advance of his companion, led the way to the rear of the store.  The colonel paused, and Gilmore gained a place at his elbow.