At a suggestion from Harbison, the gambler, followed by Joe, elbowed his way to the front door, which in spite of the protest of those outside, he closed and locked.  A moment later, however, he opened it to admit Doctor Taylor, the coroner, and Conklin, the sheriff.  The latter instantly set about clearing the room.

Gilmore and the colonel remained with the officials and during the succeeding ten minutes the gambler, who had kept his post at the door, opened, it to Moxlow, young Watt Harbison and two policemen.

As the coroner finished his examination of the body, the sound of wheels was heard in the Square and an undertaker’s wagon drew up to the door.  The murdered man was placed on a stretcher and covered with a black cloth, then four men raised the stretcher and for the last time the old merchant passed out under his creaking sign into the night.

“I’ve agreed to watch at the house, Andy,” said Colonel Harbison.  “I want you and Watt to come with me.”

The gambler lighted a fresh cigar and the three men left the store.

On the Square groups of men discussed the murder.  Though none was permitted to enter the store, the windows afforded occasional glimpses of the little group of officials within, until a policeman closed and fastened the heavy wooden shutters.  Then the crowd slowly and reluctantly dispersed.

Meanwhile the town marshal, under cover of the excitement, had descended on the gas house where tramps congregated of winter nights for warmth and shelter.  Here he found shivering over a can of beer, two homeless wretches, whom he arrested as suspicious characters.  After this, official activity languished, for the official mind could think of nothing more to do.

With the scattering of the crowd on the Square, Shrimplin climbed into his cart and drove off home.  The smother of wind-driven snow still enveloped the, town, the very air seemed charged with mystery and horror, and before the little lamplighter’s eyes was ever the haunting vision of the murdered man.

He drove into the alley back of his house, unhitched Bill and led him into the barn.  His torch made the gloom of the place more terrifying than utter darkness would have been.  Suppose the murderer should be hiding there!  Mr. Shrimplin’s mind fastened on the hay-mow as the most likely place of concealment, and the cold sweat ran from him in icy streams; he could, almost see the murderer’s evil eyes fixed upon him from the blackness above.  But at last Bill was stripped of his harness, and the little lamplighter, escaping from the barn with its fancied terrors, hurried across his small back yard to his kitchen door.

“Well!” said Mrs. Shrimplin, as he entered the room.  “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever think it worth your while to come home!”

“What’s the bell been ringing for?” asked Custer.  Mrs. Shrimplin was seated by the table, which was littered with her sewing; Custer occupied his usual chair by the stove, and it was evident that they knew nothing of the tragedy in which Mr. Shrimplin had played so important, and as he now felt, so worthy a part.