“I think it’s a splendid clue.  But, unfortunately, I don’t think we can prove anything by your father, for he’s just been telling me that there was no one in the place but himself.  No one came in, and he was quite alone—­” Ranson had begun speaking eagerly, but either his own words or the intentness with which Cahill received them caused him to halt and hesitate—­“absolutely—­alone.”

“You see,” said Cahill, thickly, “as soon as they had gone I rode to the Indian village.”

“Why, no, father,” corrected Miss Cahill.  “Don’t you remember, you told me last night that when you reached Lightfoot’s tent I had just gone.  That was quite two hours after the others left the store.”  In her earnestness Miss Cahill had placed her hand upon her father’s arm and clutched it eagerly.  “And you remember no one coming in before you left?” she asked.  “No one?”

Cahill had not replaced the bandaged hand in his pocket, but had shoved it inside the opening of his coat.  As Mary Cahill caught his arm her fingers sank into the palm of the hand and he gave a slight grimace of pain.

“Oh, father,” Miss Cahill cried, “your hand!  I am so sorry.  Did I hurt it?  Please—­let me see.”

Cahill drew back with sudden violence.

“No!” he cried.  “Leave it alone!  Come, we must be going.”  But Miss Cahill held the wounded hand in both her own.  When she turned her eyes to Ranson they were filled with tender concern.

“I hurt him,” she said, reproachfully.  “He shot himself last night with one of those new cylinder revolvers.”

Her father snatched the hand from her.  He tried to drown her voice by a sudden movement toward the door.  “Come!” he called.  “Do you hear me?”

But his daughter in her sympathy continued.  “He was holding it so,” she said, “and it went off, and the bullet passed through here.”  She laid the tip of a slim white finger on the palm of her right hand.

“The bullet!” cried Ranson.  He repeated, dully, “The bullet!”

There was a sudden, tense silence.  Outside they could hear the crunch of the sentry’s heel in the gravel, and from the baseball field back of the barracks the soft spring air was rent with the jubilant crack of the bat as it drove the ball.  Afterward Ranson remembered that while one half of his brain was terribly acute to the moment, the other was wondering whether the runner had made his base.  It seemed an interminable time before Ranson raised his eyes from Miss Cahill’s palm to her father’s face.  What he read in them caused Cahill to drop his hand swiftly to his hip.

Ranson saw the gesture and threw out both his hands.  He gave a hysterical laugh, strangely boyish and immature, and ran to place himself between Cahill and the door.  “Drop it!” he whispered.  “My God, man!” he entreated, “don’t make a fool of yourself.  Mr. Cahill,” he cried aloud, “you can’t go till you know.  Can he, Mary?  Yes, Mary.”  The tone