method were needed to enforce their silence.

From the scanty facts in his possession the corporal tried to pick out some logical thread of connection between the people thus far enmeshed in the threefold tragedy of the wilderness: Mudgett, the stranger in the upper bunk, the woman from nowhere.  Besides these there was the trapper, Stark, who, Mudgett declared, had built himself a winter shack farther up the valley.  'Phonse Doucet, the assailant of the Crooked Forks store keeper, had escaped somewhere on this side of the mountains.  So there were five, at least, who had suddenly pushed across into this lonesome, isolated territory where even the marks of squaw-hatchets were seldom found.Nor had Dexter forgotten the face of the man in the Bertillon photograph, which Constable Graves carried in his pocket. And for some reason the name of "Pink" Crill stuck insistently in his mind. Was this outlander also sojourning in the wilderness? And if so, was he in any way involved in the affairs of the others? There was no saying. Yet the corporal could not escape the feeling that he had touched the sinister web of some large criminal business—of plot and counterplot—that entangled the members of some unidentified outlaw band. What hope of profit might draw traffickers in organized crime to such infertile, out-of-the-way fields, he was unable to guess. He only knew that the country had been suddenly invaded by a mysterious and dangerous company of intruders.

His glance returned grimly to the silent figures in the bunks. No doubt these two held the secret, of which he himself had failed to find the key. But he could scarcely believe that murder had been committed just to prevent their telling what they might know. If this were the only motive, why was not the policeman shot instead of his prisoners? Dexter had not dreamed of the presence of a third person in the cabin, and the woman might have left the door unbarred and ambushed him with perfect safety as he entered.

He shook his head grimly. There must have been other reasons for the wanton shooting. Vengeance? The voice had said something about being betrayed. Had Mudgett or his companion sent the word that summoned Constable Graves into the woods? Such a supposition was improbable. If the constable's murderer had betrayed anyone to the police, why had he himself shot the policeman? Dexter sighed as he realized that his speculations were leading nowhere. Until he knew a great deal more than he knew now, he was groping vainly, without one enlightening clew to suggest the meaning of this strange and dark affair. It was wiser to leave off theorizing, and go after the woman.

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