in the office, Morrow had called him by his soldier name, and Frost knew "all was up." He must have those papers. He drew the revolver to frighten the old man, and it went off, killing him instantly. He was horror-stricken, but strove to collect himself. Flight would betray him at once as the murderer. Why not make it a case of suicide--leave the pistol by him? No--that would not do. It was Graham's--Ha! why not make Graham the guilty one? Quickly he got the safe key from the old man's pocket, unlocked and obtained the cash-drawer, with its five hundred dollars in green-backs--opened the desk, and rummaged through the letters till he found one from the headquarters of the Seventh Cavalry, which gave a description of several men almost his height and general appearance who had deserted. Among them he recognized his own and his soldier name. With these he went to the cottage, leaving all dark at the mill, burned the letter, hid portions of the money in Graham's mattress, and was thinking, in terror, what to do next, when he heard voices on the road. He dare not go out, and so wasted some time in the house. When he heard Graham drive back with the buggy he hurriedly undressed and went to bed. Then Schaffer came home and he called him in, that the boy might say that he was in bed and undressed; but when Graham entered he shammed sleep. Roused, at last, by Graham's demand for his money and the news that he was going away, an idea occurred to him. Cutting a slit in his finger with a razor, he let the blood fall on a couple of five-dollar bills--smeared and quickly dried it--gave them to Graham before he started, and as soon as he was gone went busily to work. Going down to the mill as soon as satisfied that all was safe--Schaffer asleep and Dick far on his way to the railroad--he found the east door locked. Then he knew that Graham had been there; had locked the door and taken the key to the hall of the mill-house, and of course had seen nothing of the body. He got the key, obtained Graham's overalls from the mill, burned them in the stove at the cottage--as he argued Dick could have done had he bloodied them in the affray--and then in Graham's room had found his cambric handkerchief. Once more he went down to the ghostly mill, and dipped this into the blood of his victim; then locked the mill door (he had locked the office door, leaving the key inside), put the key back in the house, returned to the cottage, and to bed. He had woven a chain for Graham that, added to the poor fellow's flight and his previous disagreements, would fasten all suspicion on him as the murderer. Then he thought of the money. He rose, bundled it loosely in an old oyster-can, stole out in the gray light of approaching dawn, and buried it in the loose sand down on the shore of the mill-pond, just where all the cattle would go for water, and trample out all traces within an hour; then once more he went back to bed, and to the