He was silent a moment, then his face fell.  “I must take a run inta th’ Post an’ see th’ O.C. ’bout this,” he resumed.  “Tis an exthornary case.  There’s just a possibility we may be all wrong—­jumphin’ at conclusions tu much.  Th’ ould man! . . .  I think I can see th’ face av um.  He’ll shling his pen across th’ Ord’ly-room.  ‘Damn th’ man!  Damn th’ man!’ he’ll cry.  ‘Go you now an’ apprehend um on suspicion thin!  Fwhy shud I kape a dog an’ du me own barkin’?’ An’ thin he’ll think betther av ut an’ chunt ‘Poppycock, all poppycock! . . .  As you were, Sarjint’—­an’ thin he’ll call in Kilbride.  Eh! fwhat yez laughin’ at, yeh fules?” he queried irritably.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, the expression on their superior’s cadaverous face just then—­its droll mixture of apprehension and perplexity was more than Yorke and Redmond could stand.  Awhile they rocked up against each other—­a trifle hysterically; it was the reaction to nerves worked up to a pitch of intense excitement.

“Yez gigglin’ idjuts!” growled Slavin.  “Come on, let’s get home!  No use us shtandin here longer—­gassin’ like a bunch av ould washer-wimmin full av gin an’ throuble.”

In silence they trudged on to the detachment. “’Ome, sweet ’ome! be it never so ’umble!” quoth Yorke, as they reached their destination, “Hullo! who’s this coming along?” Shading his eyes with his hand he gazed down the trail.  “Looks like Doctor Cox and Lanky.”

The trio stared at the approaching buckboard which contained two occupants.  “Sure is,” said Redmond, “out to some case west of here, I suppose.”

They hailed the physician cheerily, as presently he drew up to the detachment.  “Fwhere away, Docthor?” queried Slavin.  “Will ye not shtop an’ take dinner wid us, yu’ an’ Lanky?  ’Tis rarely we see yez in these parts now.”

“Eh, sorry!” remarked that gentleman, climbing out of the rig and stretching his cramped limbs, “got to get on to Horton’s, though.  One of their children’s sick.  Thanks, all the same, Sergeant.”  Glancing round at his teamster he continued in lowered tones, “There’s a little matter I’d like to speak to you fellows about.”

“Sure!” agreed Slavin, quickly.  “Come inside thin, Docthor.”

The party entered the detachment and, seating themselves, gazed enquiringly at their visitor.  For a space he surveyed them reflectively, a perturbed expression upon his usually genial countenance.  His first words startled them.

“It’s about your J.P., Mr. Gully,” he began.  “This incident, mind, is closed absolutely—­as far as he and I are concerned; but, under the circumstances, which to say the least struck me as being mighty peculiar, I—­well! . . .  I don’t think it’s any breach of medical etiquette on my part telling you about it.

“For some time past now I’ve been treating Gully for insomnia.  Man first came to me seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown through it.