“Something that you will need very soon—­grit.”

“I—­I don’t quite understand yet, my dear fellow.  Why?”

The face of Saunders was serious now.  The danger that confronted both of them was no chimera.

“Look here, Griffin,” he broke out, “that murderer did this thing under orders.  He either has had a story fixed up for him by his employers, or he will try to put the deed off on someone else.  An explanation must be given when the body is discovered in the morning.  All was certainly foreseen, for these chaps take no chances.  Now, you may wager a lot that his superiors, or their representatives, are not far away; no farther, in fact, than the railroad camp.  You may be sure, too, that their own secret service men are on the job, close by.  The question is, what story will this fellow tell?”

“You can—­ah—­search me, Saunders,” retorted Mark.

Saunders laughed.  Mark had a way of appearing cheerful.

“Come now, that’s doing fine.  ‘Search you,’ eh?  That is just exactly what the police probably will do.”

“Why?”

“Why?  Because your being there was the unforeseen part of the whole tragedy.  I think it quite upset their calculations.  Your hand is marked with powder from the gun fire.  Everyone will see that to-morrow.  The principal will know something of it from the murderer.  In fact, he probably knows now.  To-morrow they will be searching for the man with the powder mark.  The murderer himself can swear that he saw someone fire at the man who was killed.  He may charge robbery.  Only when the body is found shall we know what he is going to do.  If they have taken his money, it means that you are going to be arrested, for they intend putting it on you.  Unless I am mistaken, his pockets are inside out right now.  The powder marks alone are enough to fasten suspicion on you.  Then, you were absent all day, and someone certainly must have seen you on the bluff road.  Above all, you love Ruth Atheson, and lovers have been known to kill rivals.  My detective intuition tells me, Griffin, that you stand a good chance of being charged with murder.”

“Well,” said Mark, “I have an excellent witness for the defense, in one James Saunders, detective.”

“You have,” answered Saunders, “but not at the inquest; for if James Saunders, detective, shows his hand then, he will not live to testify at the trial, where his testimony, sprung as a surprise, might be useful.”

“You mean that they would—­”

“Just so,” Saunders nodded wisely; “that’s just what they would do.  On the other hand, that fellow may stick to the story, whatever it is, that they had fixed up for him.  It looks reasonable to me that he would be instructed to do that.  He may come forward when the body is found, and give himself up, saying that he was out shooting coons, or some other animals that you can best get at night, and that one of his bullets must have killed the man.  That looks like the easiest way out of it.”