s. Carroll, living at St. Catherines, Ont., and a
brother John, who, just before the tragedy, had removed from Pawnee
Rock, Kan., to Arkansas. He also had two nieces who were Mother
Superiors in Canadian convents. In appearance he was a fine looking man,
five feet ten and one-half inches tall, weighing 180 pounds and well
proportioned. His hair was black and his luxuriant mustache was
generally worn long and wavy at the ends. Personally he was courteous
and warm-hearted. At the same time his impulses were quick and strong,
and, while he would go to any extreme to serve a friend, he would follow
up an enemy with relentless determination and vindictiveness. Wherever
he went he enjoyed great popularity, and he could always boast of an
extensive acquaintance and a host of close friends. He always retained
the fine tenor voice of his youth and almost his last public appearance
in Chicago was at the Washington centennial celebration at the Cavalry
Armory, on which occasion he sang a specially composed "Hymn to
Washington," with such telling effect as not only to elicit an encore
but to rouse the vast audience to unwonted enthusiasm.

CHAPTER II.

DR. CRONIN FAILS TO RETURN HOME--ANXIETY OF HIS FRIENDS--THE EARLY
MORNING RIDE TO THE ICE HOUSE--O'SULLIVAN'S SURPRISE AND IGNORANCE--THE
MYSTERIOUS WAGON AND ITS OCCUPANTS--A BLOODY TRUNK IS FOUND--THE SEARCH
COMMENCED--"IT IS HIS HAIR."

Dr. Cronin did not join his friends at the meeting of the Celto-American
Society that memorable Saturday night. Nor, although the Conklins waited
for him until long past midnight, were the familiar footsteps heard upon
the stairs. The Sabbath dawned, and the first streaks of grey penetrated
through the curtains into his apartments, but he was still absent.
Naturally the Conklins became alarmed. During all the years that the
physician had lived with them he had been a model of punctuality in his
habits. It was the first occasion that he had remained so long from home
without reason. If his business affairs happened to keep him away even
an hour longer than usual it was his invariable practice to in some way
contrive to advise his friends, so that they might notify any patients
that came in his absence. Moreover, he was not a drinking man and such a
thing as staying out all night with boon companions was foreign to his
practice. Yet, eight hours had sped by, the morning had broken, and he
had not returned. No wonder, then, that the f