For there—­where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the “coronet”—­was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks.  The hoof itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down.  Slavin picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in calks, commonly known as “neverslips.”  He took the measurements of the shoe and glanced at his note-book.

Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust the book back in his pocket.  Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him tie it up again.

Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances.  “See here; look, Nick!” Slavin grasped the livery-man’s fat shoulder and looked grimly into the startled, rubicund face.  “I’m a-goin’ tu put a question tu yeh, an’ ’member now. . . .  I want yeh tu think harrd! . . .  Now—­whin Larry Blake came in tu saddle-up an’ pull out last night was that ther sorrel o’ Windy’s still in th’ stable—­or not?”

“Eh?” gasped Lee at last, “I dunno!  Me nor Lanky wasn’t around when Larry pulled out.  We was over t’ th’ hotel, Sarjint.”

Slavin released the man’s shoulder with a testy, balked gesture.  “Yes! enjoyin’ th’ racket an’ dhrunk like th’ rist, I guess! . . .  ’Tis a foine sort av town-constable yez are!”

Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence.  “I came round here ‘bout midnight, anyways!” he protested.  “I always do—­jes’ t’ see ’f everythin’s all right.  That hawss was in then, I will swear—­’cause I ‘member his halter-shank’d come untied and I fixed it.  Ev’rythin’ in th’ garden was lovely ‘cep’ fur that ‘damned hobo sneakin’ round.  He was gettin’ a drink at th’ trough an’ I chased him.  But he beat it up inta th’ loft an’—­I’m that scared of fire,” he ended lamely, “I never lock up fur that.”

Slavin nodded wisely.  “Yes!  I guess he made his getaway from yu’—­easy.  Mighty long toime since yuh’ve bin able tu dhrag yeh’re guts up that ladder—­lit alone squeege thru’ th’ thrap-dhure.  Bet Lanky does all th’ chorin’.”  He glanced around him impatiently, “But this here’s all talk—­it don’t lead nowheres.  Hullo! this is Gully’s team, ain’t it?” He indicated a splendid pair of roans standing in a double stall nearby.

“Yes!” said Lee, “he pulled in las’ night t’ catch th’ nine-thirty down t’ Calgary.  He ain’t back yet.”

“Fwas he—­” Slavin checked himself abruptly—­“fwhat toime did he get in here?”

“’Bout nine.”

“Fwhat toime ‘bout fwas ut whin this racket shtarted up betune Windy an’ Larry?”

“Oh, I dunno, Sarjint!—­’bout nine, may be—­as I say I—­”

“Come on!” said the sergeant, abruptly, to his men, “let’s go an’ eat.  Luk afther thim harses good, Nick,” he flung back in a kind tone.

Outside in the dark road they gathered together, bandying mystified conjecture in low tones. “‘Tis no use arguin’, bhoys,” snapped Slavin at last, wearily, “we’ve got tu see Chuck Reed an’ Bob Ingalls an’ Brophy av th’ hotel.  Their wurrd goes—­they’re straight men.  If they had Windy corralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let’s Windy out.”