"Over there," Chacherre gestured. "We ain't had a chance to bring him back yet—this fellow kept us busy. Maybe you want to frame up an alibi for him?"
Gramont paid no attention to the sneering tone of this last. He regarded Chacherre fixedly, thinking hard, keeping himself well in hand.
"You say the sheriff was here, then went over toward the Ledanois land?" he asked. "Did he go alone, or were you with him?"
"We were fixin' to follow him," asserted Chacherre, confidently. This was all Gramont wanted to know—that the man was lying. "We were trailin' along after him when he stepped into the bushes. This man of yours was standing over him with a knife——"
"I was, too, when they found me—I was cuttin' me a fishpole," said Hammond, sulkily. He was plainly beginning to be impressed and alarmed by the evidence against him. Gramont only nodded.
"No one saw the actual murder, then?"
"No need for it," said Chacherre, brazenly. "When we found him that way! Eh?"
"I suppose not," answered Gramont, his eyes fastened thoughtfully on Hammond. The latter caught the look, let his jaw fall in astonishment, then flushed and compressed his lips—and waited. Gramont glanced at Chacherre, and launched a chance shaft.
"You're Ben Chacherre, aren't you? Do you work for Mr. Fell?"
The chance shot scored. "Yes," said Chacherre, his eyes narrowing.