“Oh, I don’t think I’ll fall off the perch just yet,” said the agent, with a sheepish smile. “I’ve got the other key off Petersen,” he continued significantly. “One or two of the curious ones came nosing around, but I warned ’em off the course, quick. Hello! here she comes. Well, I’ll see you later, Sergeant.” And he hurried away about his duties.
Inspector Purvis, a dark, heavy-set, middle-aged man, wearing the South African and Riel Rebellion campaign ribbons, acknowledged Benton’s salute punctiliously and, turning, introduced his companion.
“This is Dr. Sampson, the coroner, Sergeant Benton,” he said.
And Ellis shook hands with a tall, gray-mustached, pleasant-faced man, whom he knew very well by sight. The latter glanced sharply at the policeman’s bandaged head.
“Looks as if you’d been in the wars, Sergeant,” he said. “What’s happened you?”
Ellis drew them on one side and briefly related his story, to which they listened with lively interest.
“Well, well,” said the Inspector at its conclusion. “We’ll wait till this train pulls out, and let these people get away, and then we’ll go on down to this section hut and view this body.”
Ten minutes later they stood in front of the shed, and Ellis unlocked the door and flung it open. An angry buzz greeted them, as their presence disturbed a hideous swarm of blue-bottle flies. Sharp exclamations of loathing and disgust escaped the two newcomers who, after gazing for a few seconds at the thing that had once been a man, proceeded to note all details carefully, with the callous precision of men hardened to such sights.
Once the Inspector’s glance traveled curiously, from the shattered head of the corpse, to the stern, bandaged face of the man beside him, who had caused this terrible transformation.
“Some shootin’!” he observed, in a low voice, to the coroner.