"Archibald McBride's been murdered!"

Mr. Gilmore took the butt of the half-smoked cigar from between his
teeth, tossed it into the gutter, and pushing past Mr. Shrimplin entered
the room.

Colonel Harbison, a step or two in advance of his companion, led the way
to the rear of the store. The colonel paused, and Gilmore gained a place
at his elbow.

"You are sure he's dead?" questioned the gambler.

Kneeling beside the crumpled figure Gilmore slipped his hand in between
the body and the floor; his manner was cool and businesslike. After a
moment he withdrew his hand and looked, up into the colonel's face.

"Well?" asked the colonel.

"Oh, he's dead, all right!" Gilmore glanced about him, and the colonel's
eyes following, they both discovered that the door leading into the side
yard was partly open.

"He went that way, eh, Colonel?"

"It's altogether likely," agreed the veteran.

"It's a nasty business!" said Gilmore reflectively.

"Shocking!" snapped the colonel.