"I honestly don't know what to think."
"It wouldn't surprise me if this business hitches up somehow with the errand that brought me into the mountains," remarked Devreaux musingly. "Poor Graves and I came up here together from the fort. We separated this morning, he to beat along the course of the brook, and I to swing across through the timber. We had planned to meet to-night farther up the valley. Coming through a while ago, I caught the glint of fire, and of course turned aside to investigate. I heard some one coming this direction, and effaced myself. A man came along, and I grabbed him to make him account for himself, and he was you.
"What was the man like whom you arrested?" he asked abruptly—"not Mudgett, the other?"
"Undersize, swarthy, hawk-beaked, glittering black eyes."
"No," interrupted Devreaux. "The one I'm thinking of has light red hair."
"'Pink' Crill?" asked Dexter, mentioning a name that for some reason had stuck disagreeably in his thoughts.
"Where have you heard of Crill?" demanded the officer.
"I found a Bertillon photograph in Graves' jacket."
"I see. Yes—'Pink' Crill! I shouldn't have been sorry if he were the one. Saved us future trouble."
"Yes?" said the corporal expectantly.