-more than a century ago. Wrote mighty dismal stuff; I have his
collected works. That poem is not among them, but it must have been
omitted by mistake."

"It is cold," said Holker; "let us leave here; we must have up the
coroner from Napa."

Jaralson said nothing, but made a movement in compliance. Passing
the end of the slight elevation of earth upon which the dead man's
head and shoulders lay, his foot struck some hard substance under the
rotting forest leaves, and he took the trouble to kick it into view.
It was a fallen headboard, and painted on it were the hardly
decipherable words, "Catharine Larue."

"Larue, Larue!" exclaimed Holker, with sudden animation. "Why, that
is the real name of Branscom--not Pardee. And--bless my soul! how it
all comes to me--the murdered woman's name had been Frayser!"

"There is some rascally mystery here," said Detective Jaralson. "I
hate anything of that kind."

There came to them out of the fog--seemingly from a great distance--
the sound of a laugh, a low, deliberate, soulless laugh, which had no
more of joy than that of a hyena night-prowling in the desert; a
laugh that rose by slow gradation, louder and louder, clearer, more
distinct and terrible, until it seemed barely outside the narrow
circle of their vision; a laugh so unnatural, so unhuman, so
devilish, that it filled those hardy man-hunters with a sense of
dread unspeakable! They did not move their weapons nor think of
them; the menace of that horrible sound was not of the kind to be met