ife now, Sherlock. I'm going to fix it so that
when you _do_ die, the people of this burg will erect a monument to you
that will make the one in Trafalgar Square,--if you know where that
is,--look like a hitching post. Lend me your ear, Mr. Pinkerton. That's
right. Take off your hat. You can hear better.

"I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the case of our late
lamented friend, Jake Miller. I have in my possession the letter he
received yesterday afternoon. It is under lock and key, and no one else
has seen it. While everybody else was gazing at Jake and wondering how
long he'd been hanging there, I--with my nose for news,--went off in
search of that letter. I might have spared myself the trouble, for the
last thing Jake did before ending his life, was to put it in an envelope
and mail it to me. He also enclosed a short note in which he implored me
to do the right thing by him and put his name in the biggest type we
have on hand. That's just what I intend to do. Now, I'm going to turn
that letter over to you. Instead of me being the one to tell _you_
about it, you are going to be allowed to tell _me_ about it. See? That's
what you are here for now,--to show me this letter with all its
harrowing details. Later on, when the coroner comes over from Boggs
City, you can deliver it to him. Now listen!"

[Illustration: _"I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the case
of our late lamented friend, Jake Miller"_]

Ten minutes later, Marshal Crow strode solemnly out of the _Banner_
office, and debouched upon the crowd in front of Hawkins's. Several
erstwhile admirers snickered. He paid not the slightest attention to
them. Instead he inquired in a loud, authoritative voice if any one had
seen Alf Reesling.

"I'm standin' right in front of you," said Alf.

"I deputize you to act as guard during the day over the remains of
Orlando Camp. You are to see to it that no one trespasses within fifty
feet of it without an order from me,--or the Governor of New York. You
will--"

"What the devil are you talkin' about?" demanded Alf. "There ain't no
remains around here named Camp."

The marshal smiled, but there was more pity than mirth in the effort.

"All you got to do is to do what I deputize you to do," he said quietly.
"Is Bill Kepsal here?"

"Present," said the iron-armed blacksmith, with a series of winks that
almost sufficed to take in the whole assemblage.

"I deputize you, William Kepsal, and--" (he c