Up ahead, the whistle blasted through the night. The train was coming into Truckee, where the authorities would take over the body and the mystery.
The little group of men around the dead man dropped into silence. The correspondent was sitting down scribbling off a telegram to file at the station.
But he said nothing about the red mark on Stephen Laird’s forehead, because no one had thought to mention it.
That mark was scarcely noticeable now. It was nothing more than a faint blur.
Living, the red mark on Laird’s forehead had impressed three men: the porter, the conductor, and the brakeman.
Now that Laird was dead, the mark was dying, too, as though it were connected with his soul, rather than with his body. In the excitement, the mark was forgotten.
The porter had been sent back to his car. All that the newspapers and the authorities were told was that a man had been found stabbed on the observation platform; a fragment of blotter had been found beside him; he had uttered certain vague words and letters before his death; and a letter which he had written had been stolen.
But of all the details marking the murder of Stephen Laird, that vanished crimson mark was most significant. For it was that sign that brought him to his doom!
That spot that shone like blood was the mark of death! Now, death had struck; and its mark — no longer needed — was gone!