I touched the edge of the blanket, and thrust it away, feeling the body.
The man was fully dressed, lying upon his back, and I experienced no difficulty in attaining the pockets of his coat.

In the third I found what I sought--a box of matches.
Never before, or since, have I experienced such relief, as when my fingers closed over this precious find.

I struck one, and as the phosphorus head burst into flame, stared about the vacant room, and then down into the dead face within the bunk.

The man had been killed by the stroke of a hatchet, and was almost unrecognizable.

Not until the blazing match had burned to my finger tips was I sure of his identity--then, to my added horror, I recognized Coombs.