which startled him with its marvelous
resemblance to HIMSELF! In a flash of intelligence he understood it all
now. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for whom
the assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at the
envelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the name
by which the assistant had just called him. The mystery was plain now.
And for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and trust to
later fortune to justify himself.

Transformed in his new garb, he left his lodgings to present himself
once more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the large
gambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods trader
disengaged; perhaps the consciousness of more decent, civilized garb
emboldened him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered the
saloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when a man
suddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a revolver full in his
face. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire again
the astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutched
the weapon. A brief but violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his strength
failing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into the furious
eyes of his adversary, and the man's grasp mechanically relaxed. The
half-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was accidentally
discharged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead. No one in the
crowd had stirred or interfered.

"You've done for Australian Pete this time, Mr. Fowler," said a voice
at his elbow. He turned gaspingly and recognized his strange benefactor,
Flynn. "I call you all to witness, gentlemen," continued the gambler,
turning dictatorially to the crowd, "that this man was FIRST attacked
and was UNARMED." He lifted Flint's limp and empty hands and then
pointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. "Come!" He
caught the half-paralyzed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street.

"But," stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, "what does
it all mean? What made that man attack me?"

"I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missed
it by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn't the square thing,
and you're all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had
agin' you."

"But," protested the unhappy Flint, "I never laid eyes on the man
before, and my name isn't Fowler."

Flynn h