Page:The Yellow Book - 13.djvu/148

132 alone. But it stirred him less than the sight of the purse; on that his ideas were clear, though confined to the necessities of the moment. The young farmer, whose thrift had filled it, the shot of a murderer had sent beyond the need of it. But to him, hungry and penniless, the possession of it meant life itself. Not to take advantage of such a godsend was to deserve starvation or the worst treatment he might expect in the township. Robbery? Surely there could be no robbery in taking what was less than nothing to the dead! Like a true son of the wilderness he argued from the standpoint of his extremity, not from the higher ground or sentiment.

With a furtive glance on either side of him, he stooped down and stretched out his hand. But, before he could grasp the prize, the door of the house creaked on its hinges and closed with a bang. As if the trumpet of judgment had sounded in his ears, the man sprang to his feet, and, in a fit of guilty dread, rushed to the gate. But, in his eagerness, he fumbled at the latch without unfastening it. The check, slight as it was, sufficed to disarm his fears. But it was not until he stood in the open roadway, that he paused to reconnoitre. The wind, indeed, swept through the trees, but there was nothing else to alarm him. The silence of the hour, intensified by the silence of death, held the little garden.

Muttering a curse at his folly the swagger slowly retraced his steps to the body, whose eyes now looked up at him stonily. As if afraid delay might weaken his purpose, he stooped down for the second time, and, with averted head, hastily picked up the purse. But, in doing it, he exposed to view the underside, until then hidden. On it were three dark stains, which could only have been made by bloody fingers. From the light brown surface or the leather they stood out with that cruel insistence the imagination has grown to associate with human blood. As his eyes fell Rh