"It was no joke for him!" said the gambler, catching the last word. "But
some one was bound to try this dodge sooner or later. Why, as far back
as I can remember, people said he kept his money hidden away at the
bottom of nail kegs and under heaps of scrap-iron." He took a cigar from
his pocket, bit off the end, and struck a match. "Well, I wouldn't want
to be the other fellow, Colonel; I'd be in all kinds of a panic; it
takes nerve for a job like this."

"It's a shocking circumstance," said the colonel.

"I wonder if it paid!" speculated the gambler. "And I wonder who'll get
what he leaves. Has he any family or relatives?"

"No, not so far as any one knows. He came here many years ago, a
close-mouthed Scotchman, who never had any intimates, never married, and
never spoke of his private affairs."

There was a slight commotion at the door. They could hear Shrimplin's
agitated voice, and a moment later two men, chance passers-by with whom
he had been speaking, shook themselves free of the little lamplighter
and entered the room. The new-comers nodded to the colonel and Gilmore
as they paused to stare mutely at the body on the floor.

"He bled like a stuck pig!" said one of the men at last. He was a
ragged slouching creature with a splotched and bloated face half hidden
by a bristling red beard. He glanced at Gilmore for an uncertain instant
out of a pair of small shifty eyes. "It's murder, ain't it, boss?" he
added.