for the Bar. He took deliberate aim and fired. There was no echo to that
sharp detonation; a distant dog barked, there was a slight whisper
in the trees beside him, that was all! But the head of the man was no
longer visible, and the liquid silver filmed over again, without a speck
or stain.

He shouldered the rifle, and with the automatic action of men in great
crises returned slowly and deliberately to the house and carefully
replaced the rifle in its old position. He had no concern for the
miserable woman who had fled; had she appeared before him at the moment,
he would not have noticed her. Yet a strange instinct--it seemed to him
the vaguest curiosity--made him ascend the stairs and enter her
chamber. The candle was still burning on the table with that awful
unconsciousness and simplicity of detail which makes the scene of real
tragedy so terrible. Beside it lay a belt and leather pouch. Madison
Wayne suddenly dashed forward and seized it, with a wild, inarticulate
cry; staggered, fell over the chair, rose to his feet, blindly groped
his way down the staircase, burst into the road, and, hugging the pouch
to his bosom, fled like a madman down the hill.

*****

The body of Arthur Wayne was picked up two days later a dozen miles down
the river. Nothing could be more evident and prosaic than the manner
in which he had met his fate. His body was only partly clothed, and
the money pouch and belt, which had been securely locked next his skin,
after the fashion of all miners, was gone. He was known to have left the
Bar with a considerable sum of money; he was undoubtedly dogged, robbed,
and murdered during his journey on the river bank by the desperadoes who
were beginning to infest the vicinity. The grief and agony of his only