A murmur arose in the crowd. "Look at that fellow," said a runner near us.

We looked. It was Quintus; he was steadily distancing all. "Gosh! Ain't he a beaut?" said another.

"Look at Oakes," said I.

"Shut up," said Moore. "Call him Clark, now."

The heavy breathing around us became noticeable; men were tiring now. It was a hard run. Away up in the lead was the solitary figure of our friend, running with body pitched a little forward and the long, even stride of the athlete. My mind now recalled that Oakes was a runner in college--a noted one in his day. Swish, swish! thump, thump! went the feet of those around us--and always that tall figure in the lead, taking the ground like a thoroughbred, and steadily increasing the distance between us.

As we reached the crest of the hill to turn down, the milk-wagons were beginning to rumble behind us and the sounds of the approaching crowd of vehicles and belated citizens became distinct. We dashed down the slope and beheld Oakes--in the lead--halt, and bend over a figure. He seemed to be speaking to the injured man. As we drew near, we saw the blood and heard the sighing breathing.

"Dying!" said Moore, by my side.

We all encircled the victim, and Dr. Moore bent over him. Then he and Oakes straightened up suddenly, and removed their hats. We all knew what had taken place. The motley crowd uncovered, panting and pale-faced.

"Dead!" said Oakes, and turned to Moore, who had joined me in the crowd.

"Be careful," he said. "The murdered man is _not_ Martin."

The rougher of the followers started to move the body, so as to see the face.

Again Oakes showed his power to lead. "Stop, men; this is a crime. Don't touch the body. Wait for the police and the coroner."

They obeyed. The first official now arrived on a wagon. He hesitated as he saw the b.l.o.o.d.y back; and then turned the face so that all could see it.

Several stepped forward, and a cry of consternation arose: "_It's Winthrop Mark!_"

_CHAPTER VII_

_The Inquest_

At the suggestion of Oakes, we mingled with the crowd for a short time and then returned to the town with some of the hotel employees, leaving the others in their excitement to await the action of the authorities.

"This man Winthrop Mark seems to have been very well known?" Oakes inquired of the hotel porter by his side.

The latter, anxious to identify himself with the town and its people, and also to please the stranger beside him who had made himself so prominent during the last few moments, gave much information.

"Yes, Mr. Clark, the murdered man has lived hereabouts for a long time; his brother owns the Mark Mansion over yonder; the town has been very proud of it, you know."

"Yes, a beautiful old place."

"It is, sir. But no place to live in; there has been something dangerous about it, sir."

"Seems to me I heard something of it when I was last in Mona," said Oakes.

"Did you have any experience, sir?"

"Experience! What do you mean?"

"I do not know, sir, but _it_ always appears. Something that scares people."

"Hurts the town, doesn't it?"

"Yes, indeed, sir; and this murder will spoil everything here now."

"I cannot quite follow you."

"Oh, sir, you don't know how good Mr. Mark was: Always improving the roads; always giving the town money; forever clearing up jealousies,"

said the porter.

Oakes looked at him: "Say, my man, how long have you been a porter? You don't speak like a man brought up in such work."

"I was not, sir. I used to be a merchant, years ago; burned out; no insurance; broke; went to work as a porter; nothing else to do. The old story, Mr. Clark; I am not the first one!"

We knew Oakes was seeking some information, so we remained quiet.

"Sad enough," said he; "perhaps times will improve for you."

The porter, Reilly by name, smiled and looked at Oakes with that expression of hopeful despair we have all seen, we who rub the world in our continuous efforts.

"Who could have shot Mr. Mark?" asked our companion, "did he have many enemies?"

"No, Mr. Clark. I know of none. But----" and the man paused.

"Well, what?" said the detective in an off-hand way.

"Well, it's peculiar," said Reilly, "very peculiar to me. Two or three years ago, sir, Smith, the leading man of the town, was shot at the very same spot in the road."

"What!" I cried; but a look from Oakes silenced me. "Indeed! quite a coincidence," said he. "Who shot him?"

"n.o.body knows. I was just going to work when it happened."

"Early in the day, then?"

"Just about six o'clock, sir--and he was shot right through the chest,"

volunteered our informant. "Well, I hope they catch this fellow," said Oakes. "You have a good police chief here."

"Yes, sir, very. He came up here first for his health; but he was once chief in some large city."

"Ah, then he will get the murderer surely. Mona is fortunate in having such a man."

Reilly looked pleased at the compliment, and it seemed as though Oakes had won another follower.

Before we reached the hotel, we saw that the town was now wide awake.