Thin Ice

"I don't think you quite realize, Griffin," Saunders' voice had quite an uneasy tremor in it, as he spoke, "that you are in some danger."

The detective was sitting in Mark's bedroom, and the clock was striking midnight in the hotel office below. They had returned together from the bluff road and had been discussing the tragedy ever since.

"I think I do," Mark answered, "but I don't very much care."

"Then," said Saunders, "you English have some nerves!"

"You forget, Saunders, that I am not quite English. I am half Irish, and the Irish have 'some nerves.' But I am really hit very hard. I suppose it's the English in me that won't let me show it."

Saunders did not answer for a moment. Then he took his cigar out of his mouth.

"Nerves?" he repeated half laughingly. "Yes, nerves they have, but in the singular number."

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, I forgot that your education in United States has been sadly neglected. I mean to say that they have nerve, not nerves."

"By which you mean--?"

"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?"