“Let’s see’f he’s got any letters or anything in his pockets—­to make sure!” began Redmond eagerly.  Suiting the action to the word he bent down to investigate.  But Slavin intruded a huge arm.  “Hould on, bhoy!” he said, with all an old policeman’s fussiness over rightful procedure.  “Du not touch!  That is th’ coroner’s bizness.  Did they not dhrill that inta yeh at Regina?”

He stared thoughtfully at the corpse.  “Dhrink an’ th’ divil! eyah! dhrink an’ th’ divil!”—­sadly.  “Larry, me pore bhoy! niver more will ye come a-whoopin’ ut out av Cow Run on yeh ‘Duster’ horse . . . shpiflicated belike an’ singin’ ‘Th’ Brisk Young Man.”  Austerely he glanced at Yorke, “’Tis a curse, this same dhrink!”

“How do you know the poor beggar was drunk?” queried the latter, a trifle sulkily.  “He may have been as sober as you or I.”

“Shpeak for yehsilf!” retorted Slavin dryly, “Ah! this must be Docthor Cox comin’ now!”

A cutter containing two men was approaching them rapidly.  Presently it drew up alongside the group and a short, rotund gentleman, clad in furs, sprang out and came swiftly, bag in hand.  He was middle-aged, with a gray moustache and kind, alert, dark eyes.  Greeting the policemen quietly, he turned to the broken body.

“Tchkk! good God!” He shook his head sadly.  Redmond thought he had never seen a medical man so unprofessionally shocked.  Presently he straightened up and turned to Slavin.  “Can you identify him, Sergeant?”

That worthy nodded.  “Eyah! ’tis Larry Blake, I’m thinking Docthor.  Best frisk him now an’ see, I guess.  Maybe he has letthers.”

Hastily diving into his bag the coroner produced a pair of long keen scissors and slit the short, frozen sheepskin coat.  In the breast-pocket of the coat underneath, amongst other miscellany two old letters rewarded his search.  He glanced at the superscriptions and handed them up to Slavin.

“Larry Blake it is,” he said.  He felt the soggy, pulped head.  “Skull’s stove right in.  Any one of these smashes would have sufficed to kill him.”  He clipped the hair around a ghastly gaping crevice at the base of the head.

Suddenly he peered closely, uttered an exclamation, peered again and drew back.  “Sergeant!” he said sharply, “D’ye see that?—­No need to ask you what that is!” In an unbroken portion of the back of the skull he indicated a small, circular orifice.  The trio craned forward and made minute examination.  Slavin ejaculated an oath and glanced up at Yorke—­almost remorsefully.

“I take ut all back,” he said.  Meeting the coroner’s blank, enquiring stare he added:  “Booze, Docthor—­we thought ut might be. . . .  Yeh know Larry!”

The physician of Cow Run nodded understandingly.  Slavin bent again and made close scrutiny of the bullet-hole. “Back av th’ head, no powdher marks!” He straightened up.  “Docther, are ye thru?  All right, thin!  Guess we’ll book up an’ start in.”