"All right," said the manager.
A cart was obtained, and the constable requested Bill to accompany him to the spot where the corpse was lying. He was nothing loth, as he hoped to find out where the dead man came from, and discover the whereabouts of the girl whose portrait had so strangely moved him.
The body was taken to the inn the same afternoon.
CHAPTER III
Next day Bill rode to the place where the dead man's tent was still standing. The place had a grim fascination for him. Something about the old man's face and staring eyes held him in thrall. The appealing look of the girl in the photograph enchained him. The dream spoke strangely to his imagination. He felt that something had entered into his life. He did not feel a free man. Compulsion appeared to be laid upon him, and he could not shake off the feeling that a course was being shaped for him, a pattern was being woven which he did not design.
He lingered about the Devil's Punch Bowl all day, and wondered what was being brewed for him. He hoped it was something pleasant: a cup to his liking.
Monday came, and the coroner arrived in a hired buggy. The constable seized upon the publican and one of his men, to serve on the jury. Then he stationed himself at the door of the inn, and impounded every man who passed along the road, until he counted ten upon his fingers, whereupon he doubled up his fists. His hands were full—the jury was complete.