"Who's Stark?" the corporal inquired. "Never heard of him."
"Trapper mostly. That's about all I can tell you. I met up with him last summer and we decided to throw in together."
"Where is he now?" asked Dexter with a quizzical stare.
"Somewhere up the valley scoutin' out lines for the traps. Don't know just where."
Acting on impulse the corporal brought out the Bertillon card he had taken from the pocket of Constable Graves. He exhibited the photographic likeness of the man known to the Chicago police as "Pink" Crill. "Is this your Stark, by any chance?"
Mudgett leaned forward to see the print. But if he recognized the ill favored physiognomy, he gave no sign. "Never saw him before," he declared in his whining voice.
The inquiry was leading nowhere, and Dexter decided he might better save his breath until some later moment when he had Mudgett alone. He buttoned the photograph into his tunic, and smiled acidly.
"I'm going out to look after my horse," he observed, "and meanwhile I'll truss you for safekeeping."
He had only the one pair of manacles, but a brief search of the cabin discovered a length of elkhide thong. Approaching Mudgett, he twisted the rawhide about his wrists, and knotted the loop tight. The cringing trapper protested his innocence almost with sobs, but his pleading went unheeded. Dexter glanced about with a speculative frown, and then motioned the man towards the double-decked bunk, built against the wall at the right of the fireplace.
"I'll feel more comfortable about you two if you're in bed," he said. "We all might as well sleep a few hours before we start south. So climb in, please."
There was something in the quality of the corporal's voice that schooled Mudgett to instant obedience. Without a word, the trapper shambled across the floor and hoisted himself into the bunk.
Dexter turned next to the handcuffed man. "You in the upper berth," he commanded.
The stranger stood backed against the logs of the opposite wall, with his shoulders drooping, his arms hanging limply. But as the officer addressed him he looked up with his somber stare. He must have appreciated the futility of resistance however, and after a second's hesitation he lurched forward, and moved towards the bunk on heavy, dragging feet.
"You still prefer to remain nameless?" inquired the corporal.
The prisoner made no answer, but as he stumbled past Dexter he shot him a glance so charged with venom that even the seasoned man-hunter was startled.
The officer refrained from further remarks, and stood by with compressed lips until the man had climbed into the upper berth. Then, in silence, he fastened the booted feet together with unbreakable rawhide. This done, he pushed the end of the thong between a crack of the foot logs, drew it taut, and secured it to 

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