"Who's Stark?" the corporal inquired. "Never heard of him."
"Trapper mostly. That's about all I can tell you. I met up with him last summer and we decided to throw in together."
"Where is he now?" asked Dexter with a quizzical stare.
"Somewhere up the valley scoutin' out lines for the traps. Don't know just where."
Acting on impulse the corporal brought out the Bertillon card he had taken from the pocket of Constable Graves. He exhibited the photographic likeness of the man known to the Chicago police as "Pink" Crill. "Is this your Stark, by any chance?"
Mudgett leaned forward to see the print. But if he recognized the ill favored physiognomy, he gave no sign. "Never saw him before," he declared in his whining voice.
The inquiry was leading nowhere, and Dexter decided he might better save his breath until some later moment when he had Mudgett alone. He buttoned the photograph into his tunic, and smiled acidly.
"I'm going out to look after my horse," he observed, "and meanwhile I'll truss you for safekeeping."
He had only the one pair of manacles, but a brief search of the cabin discovered a length of elkhide thong. Approaching Mudgett, he twisted the rawhide about his wrists, and knotted the loop tight. The cringing trapper protested his innocence almost with sobs, but his pleading went unheeded. Dexter glanced about with a speculative frown, and then motioned the man towards the double-decked bunk, built against the wall at the right of the fireplace.
"I'll feel more comfortable about you two if you're in bed," he said. "We all might as well sleep a few hours before we start south. So climb in, please."