Assured that this must be the full explanation, the Sergeant’s cheerfulness returned.  The company of officers and guests had already filed out through the hall; he could hear voices laughing and talking in the street, and the band tuning up their instruments across in the dance hall.  He would go over and make certain of her presence, then his mind would be at ease.  He passed out through the deserted hallway, and glanced in at the dining-room, where a number of men were gathering up the dishes.  Beyond this the barroom was crowded, a riffraff lined up before the sloppy bar, among these a number in uniform—­unattached officers who had loitered behind to quench their thirst.  Hamlin drank little, but lingered a moment just inside the doorway, to observe who was present.  Unconsciously he was searching for Dupont, half inclined to pick a quarrel deliberately with the fellow or with Connors, determined if he found the little rat alone to frighten whatever knowledge he possessed out of him.  But neither worthy appeared.  Having assured himself of their absence, Hamlin turned to depart, but found himself facing a little man with long hair, roughly dressed, who occupied the doorway.  The hooked nose, and bright eyes, peering forth from a mass of untrimmed gray whiskers, were familiar.

“You keep the junk shop down by the express office, don’t you?”

“Yep,” briskly, scenting business in the question.  “I ’m Kaplan; vot could I do for you—­hey?”

“Answer a question if you will, friend.  Do you recall selling a haversack to a traveller on the last stage out for Santa Fe in June?”

“Vel, I do’ no; vas he a big fellow?  Maybe de von vat vas killed—­hey?”

“Yes; his name was Moylan, post-sutler at Fort Marcy.”

“Maybe dot vos it.  Why you vant to know—­hey?”

“No harm to you, Kaplan,” the Sergeant explained.  “Only I picked it up out there after Moylan was killed, and discovered by some writing on the flap that it originally belonged to a friend of mine.  I was curious to learn how it got into your hands.”

The trader shrugged his shoulders.

“Vud it be worth a drink?” he asked cannily.

“Of course.  Frank, give Kaplan whatever he wants.  Now, fire away.”

“Vel,” and the fellow filled his glass deliberately, “It vas sold me six months before by a fellow vat had a black beard—­”

“Dupont?”

“Dat vos de name ov de fellar, yes.  Now I know it.  I saw him here again soon.  You know him?”

“By sight only; he is not the original owner, nor the man I am trying to trace.  You know nothing of where he got the bag, I presume?”

“I know notting more as I tell you alreatty,” rather disconsolately, as he realized that one drink was all he was going to receive.

Hamlin elbowed his way out to the street.  He had learned something, but not much that was of any value.  Undoubtedly the haversack had come into Dupont’s possession through his wife, but this knowledge yielded no information as to the present whereabouts of Le Fevre.  When the latter had separated from the woman, this old army bag was left behind, and, needing money, Dupont had disposed of it, along with other truck, seemingly of little value.