Ebenezer Maybee returned at sunrise, bringing men with him. The great storm had cleared the air of the electric heat, and the morning was gloriously beautiful. The dark forest trees were rich in the sunshine, the streams and waters of the lakes laughed and rippled as happily as if no terrible storm had just passed, carrying in its trail the mystery of a foul and deadly crime. Search revealed no trace of the assassin; no clue. There were but two strangers in the city who had visited the island, and they immediately joined the searchers when they learned of the tragedy. The storm had obliterated all traces of the murderer. There was nothing missing in the humble home that held so little to tempt the cupidity of a thief. There was not even a scrap of paper found to tell who White Eagle might have been in earlier, happier days. Everyone seemed to regard Warren Maxwell as the person in authority. The police consulted him, referred to him; Mr. Maybee confided in him, and Winona clung to him with slender brown fingers like bands of steel. As far as Warren could learn, she had no friend in the world but the hotel keeper. What a different life this poor child’s must have been from any he had ever known. Old Nokomis repeated many times a day: “Surely it was the Great Father must have sent you to us.” Judah walked about all day with a dazed expression on his face, crying silently but bitterly, and a growing look of sullen fury on his dark face that told of bitter thoughts within. Over and over again his lips unconsciously formed the words: “I’ll find him when I’m older if he’s on top of the earth, and then it’ll be him or me who will lie as my poor master lies in there to-day.” Then came the funeral. The Indians gathered from all the adjoining cities and towns and from the Canada shore, to see the body of the man they had lived and respected committed to the ground. They buried him beneath the giant pine against which he was found leaning, wounded to death. Curiosity attracted many of the white inhabitants, among whom were the two strangers referred to in the first part of this narrative. Two days after the funeral, Mr. Maybee and Warren sat in the latter’s room talking of Winona and Judah. “It was a fortunit thing for us all, Mr. Maxwell, that you happened to be aroun’ during this hyar tryin’ time. You’ve been a friend in need, sir, durn me ef you ain’t.” “Yes;” replied Warren, smiling at the other’s quaint speech, “it was a time that would have made any one a friend to those two helpless children.” “Maybe, maybe,” returned the hotel keeper, dubiously. “But you must remember that every man warn’t built with a soul in his carcass; some of ’em’s only got a piece of liver whar the heart orter be.” Warren smiled again. “Mr. Maybee, I want to ask you a question----” “Go ahead, steamboat; what’s the question?”