nine miles away. The dust in the road was laid; trees were adrip
with moisture; birds sat silent in their coverts; the morning light
was wan and ghastly, with neither color nor fire.

Two men left the town of St. Helena at the first glimmer of dawn, and
walked along the road northward up the valley toward Calistoga. They
carried guns on their shoulders, yet no one having knowledge of such
matters could have mistaken them for hunters of bird or beast. They
were a deputy sheriff from Napa and a detective from San Francisco--
Holker and Jaralson, respectively. Their business was man-hunting.

"How far is it?" inquired Holker, as they strode along, their feet
stirring white the dust beneath the damp surface of the road.

"The White Church? Only a half mile farther," the other answered.
"By the way," he added, "it is neither white nor a church; it is an
abandoned schoolhouse, gray with age and neglect. Religious services
were once held in it--when it was white, and there is a graveyard
that would delight a poet. Can you guess why I sent for you, and
told you to come heeled?"

"Oh, I never have bothered you about things of that kind. I've
always found you communicative when the time came. But if I may
hazard a guess, you want me to help you arrest one of the corpses in
the graveyard."

"You remember Branscom?" said Jaralson, treating his companion's wit
with the inattention that it deserved.

"The chap who cut his wife's throat? I ought; I wasted a week's work