“Were you afraid?” demanded Custer in an awe-struck whisper.

“I’ll tell you the truth, Custer, I wasn’t.  I own I’d drawed my gun, wishing to be on the safe side.  First thing I noticed was that the lamps hadn’t been turned up, though they was all lit.  I got back to the end of the counter when I came to a halt, for there in a heap on the floor was old man McBride, with his head mashed in where some one had hit him with a sledge.  There was blood all over the floor, and it was a mighty sickenin’ spectacle.  I sort of looked around hoping I’d see the murderer, but he’d lit out, and then I went back to the front of the store, where I seen Colonel Harbison coming across the Square.  I told him what I’d seen and he went inside to look; while he was looking, along come Andy Gilmore and I told him, too, and he went in.  They knowed the murderer wasn’t there, that I’d been in ahead of them.  After, that the people seemed to come from every direction; then presently some one started to ring the town bell and that fetched more people, until the Square in front of the store was packed and jammed with ’em.  Everybody’ wanted to hear about it first-hand from me; they wanted the full particulars from the only one who knowed ’em.”

Mr. Shrimplin paused for breath.  The recollection of his splendid publicity was dazzling.  He imagined the morrow with its possibility of social triumph; he went as far as to feel that Mrs. Shrimplin now had a certain sneaking respect for him.

“Did you see tracks in the snow?” demanded Custer.

“No, I didn’t see nothing,” declared Mr. Shrimplin.

“You seen young John North.”

It was Mrs. Shrimplin who spoke.

“Well, yes, I seen young John North—­I said I seen him!”

CHAPTER SIX

PUTTING ON THE SCREWS

A score of men and boys followed the undertaker’s wagon to the small frame cottage that had been Archibald McBride’s home for half a century, and a group of these assembled about the gate as the wagon drew up before it.  Along the quiet street, windows were raised and doors were opened.  It was perhaps the first time, as it was to be the last, that Archibald McBride’s neighbors took note of his home-coming.

His keys had been found and intrusted to one of the policemen who accompanied the undertaker and his men; now, as the wagon came to a stand, this officer sprang to the ground, and pushing open the gate went quickly up the path to the front door.  There in the shelter of the porch he paused to light a lantern, then he tried key after key until he found the one that fitted the lock; he opened the door and entered the house, the undertaker following him.  A second officer stationed himself at the door and kept back the crowd.  Their preparations were soon made and the two men reappeared on the porch.

“It’s all right,” the undertaker said, and four men raised the stretcher again and carried the old merchant into the house.