“There was no water in the dead man’s lungs, sir, showing that he was dead before his body entered the water. There was a bullet-hole through his heart. I found the bullet itself lodged in the front of his spine. It was thirty-eight calibre, a revolver bullet. This man carried a thirty-eight revolver. I took it from him. I sent revolver and bullet out by Tole Grampierre.”
Lambert spoke up: “They are in my possession, sir.”
The breed woman seemed about to collapse. Imbrie, who had given no sign of being affected by Stonor’s recital, now said with a more conciliatory air than he had yet shown:
“If you please, sir, she is overcome by the trooper’s horrible story. Will you let her go outside for a moment to recover herself?”
“Very well,” said the good-natured Major, “watch her, Lambert.”
As the woman passed him Imbrie whispered to her in the Indian tongue: “Throw your locket in the river.”
Stonor, on the alert for a trick of some kind, overheard. “No, you don’t!” he said, stepping forward.
The woman made a sudden dive for the door, but Lambert seized her. She struggled like a mad thing, but the tall sergeant’s arms closed around her like a vice. Meanwhile Stonor essayed to unclasp the chain around her neck. The two breeds guarded Imbrie to keep him from interfering.
Stonor got the locket off at last, and opened it with his thumb nail. The woman suddenly ceased to struggle, and sagged in Lambert’s arms. An exclamation escaped from Stonor, and he glanced sharply into Imbrie’s face. Within the locket on one side was a tinted photograph of the heads of two little boys, oddly alike. On the other side was an inscription in the neat Spencerian characters of twenty years before: “Ernest and William Imbrie,”—and a date.
Stonor handed the locket over to the Major without speaking. “Ha!” cried the latter. “So that is the explanation. There were two of them!”