“He may not ‘a’ been yore brother,” added Bob, quickly, and with sympathy. “I’m not plumb shore o’ the name, nuther. I was helpin a man drive a drove of Kentucky hosses through to Gainesville, an’ we got thar jest atter the shootin’. I heerd the shots myse’f. The coroner held a inquest, an’ the dead man’s mother was thar. She looked pitiful; she was mighty gray an’ old an’ bent over. I was standin’ in the edge o’ the crowd when some neighbor fotch’ ’er up in his wagon, an’ we all made room for ‘er. She had the pity of every blessed man thar. She jest stood ‘mongst the rest, lookin’ down at the corpse fer some time ‘thout sayin’ a word to anybody, nur sheddin’ a tear. Then she seemed to come to ‘erse’f, an’ said, jest as ef nothin’ oncommon had occurred: ‘Well, gentlemen, why don’t you move ’im under a shelter?’ an’ with that she squatted down at his head, an’ breshed the hair off ’n his forehead mighty gentle-like. ‘We are a-holdin’ uv a inquest, accordin’ to law,’ a big feller said who was the coroner of the town. ‘Law ur no law,’ she said, lookin’ up at ‘im, her eyes flashin’ like a tiger-cat’s, ‘he sha ‘n’t lie here in the br’ilin’ sun with no roof over ‘im. Thar wasn’t no law to keep ’im from bein’ murdered right in yore midst.’ An’ she had her way, you kin bet on that. The men jest lifted ’im up an’ toted ‘im into the nighest store an’ put ’im on a cot. The coroner objected, but them men jest cussed ’im to his face an’ pushed him away as ef he was so much trash.” “Did you take notice o’ the body?” gasped Bradley, finding voice finally. “What kind of a lookin’ man was he?” “Ef I remember right, he had sorter reddish hair an’ blue eyes, an’ was ’bout yore build. He was a good-lookin’ man.” “It was brother Joe,” said Bradley. He was trembling from head to foot and was deathly pale. “Well, go on,” he said, making a mighty effort to appear calm; “what about mother?” “I don’t know anything more,” said Bob. “I left that same day. I heerd some talk about her bein’ left destitute, an’ ef I ain’t mistaken, some said her other son had gone off West an’ died out thar, as nobody had heerd from him. That’s what made me--” But Bradley interrupted him. He rose, with a dazed look on his face, and went to his desk, a few feet away. He sat on the high stool and leaned his shaggy head on a pile of account-books. An inkstand rolled down to the floor, and a penholder rattled after it, but he did not pick them up. Then everything was still. Thornton reached over and took Webb’s cigar to light his own, instead of striking the match he had taken from his pocket. The two men exchanged significant glances, and then looked curiously, almost breathlessly, at the mute figure bowed over the desk. Bradley raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and a tangled wisp of his long hair lay across his haggard face. “How long ago was it, Bob?” he asked, in a deep, husky voice. “Two year last May.”