He had abated
his vigilance and stood looking down at the body.
'Who's Bayne?' Holker asked rather incuriously.
'Myron Bayne, a chap who flourished in the
early years of the nation--more than a century
ago. Wrote mighty dismal stuff; I have his collected
works. That poem is not among them, but it must
have been omitted by mistake.'
'It is cold,' said Holker; 'let us leave here; we
must have up the coroner from Napa.'
Jaralson said nothing, but made a movement in
compliance. Passing the end of the slight elevation
of earth upon which the dead man's head and
shoulders lay, his foot struck some hard substance
under the rotting forest leaves, and he took the
trouble to kick it into view. It was a fallen head-
board, and painted on it were the hardly de-
cipherable words, 'Catharine Larue.'
'Larue, Larue!' exclaimed Holker, with sudden
animation. 'Why, that is the real name of Brans-
com--not Pardee. And--bless my soul! how it all
comes to me--the murdered woman's name had
been Frayser!'
'There is some rascally mystery here,' said De-
tective Jaralson. 'I hate anything of that kind.'
There came to them out of the fog--seemingly
from a great distance--the sound of a laugh, a low,
deliberate, soulless laugh which had no more of joy
than that of a hyena night-prowling in the desert; a
laugh that rose by slow gradation, louder and louder,
clearer, more distinct and terrible, until it seemed
barely outside the narrow circle of their vision; a
laugh so unnatural, so unhuman, so devilish, that
it filled those hardy man-hunters with a sense of
dread unspeakable! They did not move their weap-
ons nor think of them; the menace of that horrible
sound was not of the kind to be met with arms.
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