That was the heading to the article announcing the assassination of the express messenger. The train on which the deed had been committed, had left Chicago at ten in the evening, and at one o'clock, when the train was halted at a station, the deed was discovered. Arnold Nicholson was found with his skull crushed and his body terribly beaten, while, in the bloody hands of the dead, was clutched a tuft of red hair. This went to show that one of the messenger's assailants was a man with florid locks. Leaving Nell and Mr. Elliston together, Dyke Darrel hastened to the station. He was aware that a train would pass in ten minutes, and he wished to enter Chicago and make an examination for himself. The detective's home was on one of the many roads crossing Illinois, and entering the Garden City--about an hour's ride from the Gotham of the West. In less than two hours after reading the notice of the crime on the midnight express. Dyke Darrel was in Chicago. He visited the body of the murdered messenger, and made a brief examination. It was at once evident to Darrel, that Nicholson had made a desperate fight for life, but that he had been overpowered by a superior force. A reward of ten thousand dollars was already offered for the detection and punishment of the outlaws. "Poor Arnold!" murmured Dyke Darrel, as he gazed at the bruised and battered corpse. "I will not rest until the wicked demons who compassed this foul work meet with punishment!" There were still several shreds of hair between the fingers of the dead, when Dyke Darrel made his examination, since the body had just arrived from the scene of the murder. The detective secured several of the hairs, believing they might help him in his future movements. Darrel made one discovery that he did not care to communicate to others; it was a secret that he hoped might lead to results in the future. What the discovery was, will be disclosed in the progress of our story. Soon after the body of the murdered a messenger was removed to his home, from which the funeral was to take place. As Dyke Darrel was passing from the rooms of the undertaker, a hand fell on his shoulder. "You are a detective?" Dyke Darrel looked into a smooth, boyish face, from which a pair of brown eyes glowed. "What is it you wish?" Darrel demanded, bluntly. "I wish to make a confidant of somebody." "Well, go on." "First tell me if you are a detective." "You may call me one." "It's about that poor fellow you've just been interviewing," said the young stranger. "I am Watson Wilkes, and I was on the train, in the next car, when poor Nicholson was murdered. I was acting as brakeman at the time. Do you wish to hear what I can tell?" CHAPTER II. DYKE DARREL'S TRICK. "Certainly I do," cried the detective. "Come with me, and we will find a place where we can talk without danger of interruption."