I sprang forward only to fall headlong over a dead body; but in that flash I had seen the hand grasping the revolver, and there was a scar on the back of it, a very peculiar scar.

It chanced I had the evening previous slightly quarrelled with the officer who was killed; I was the only person known to be near at the time he was shot; certain other circumstantial evidence was dug up, while Slavin and one other--no, it was not you--gave some damaging, manufactured testimony against me.

As a result I was held guilty of murder in the second degree, dismissed the army in disgrace, and sentenced to ten years' imprisonment.

So, you see, it was not exactly you I have been hunting, Murphy,--it was a scar." Murphy's face was distorted into a hideous grin.

"I notice you bear exactly that kind of a scar, my man, and you spoke last night as if you had some recollection of the case." The mocking grin expanded; into the husky voice crept a snarl of defiance, for now Murphy's courage had come back--he was fronting flesh and blood.