Two men rushed past toward the Millbank end, with a jabber of Canadian French, from which Trafford learned that the assailed feared that his shoulder was broken. “One marked for identification,” he chuckled, as he slid along in the deep shadow toward the farther end. He had satisfied himself of one thing he was anxious about, and with another at hand had no time to waste on a man who could be found in the morning for the mere asking. He was too keen on the question whether Charles Matthewson was in Millbank, to allow a needless diversion. If Matthewson was in town, it showed a terrible uneasiness at the bottom of his wanderings--an uneasiness that forbade his trusting to others for information and yet demanded information at first hands, so imperatively that he was willing to take enormous risks to obtain it. “It would have been a coincidence, if I’d been murdered to-night,” said Trafford, in his wonted confidential talk with himself; “with Matthewson in town as he was the night of the other murder.” Trafford crossed the railroad bridge and so attained the Millbank station without attracting attention. He saw every one of the half-dozen passengers who boarded the train, but found no trace of the man he was seeking. As the train slowed up for the Bridge stop, he swung off into the dark in time to catch sight of a figure swinging on from the same dark side. It was not Matthewson, and he was just turning away, when suddenly he changed his purpose and as the train moved off was again on the rear platform. He rode there to the next station, and then changed his quarters to the baggage car. He had identified his man; now he was after his destination. This proved to be Waterville. A private carriage was waiting, and into it the man jumped, driving away rapidly. There was but one way to follow and keep the carriage in sight, and Trafford made a half-mile in quick time, clinging to the back-bar and resting his weight on his hands and arms. He dropped to the ground and crept away as the carriage turned into the driveway of an extensive country place, which the detective recognised as that of Henry Matthewson, a younger brother of Charles, and a man largely interested in the logging business. “Humph,” he said. “This time he comes part way and they bring him the news. Well; it ain’t of my murder, though some folks may wish it was before many hours have passed.” Before daylight, he had his operatives on hand while he himself took the early train back to Millbank. The delicate work just now was to be done there, and this he would trust to no one save himself. His appreciation of the importance of the case and the sensation that would be produced when it was finally unravelled, had increased immensely since he crossed Millbank Bridge, and he had no purpose to see it botched by clumsy handling. After breakfast he went directly to Mr. Wing’s office and sought an interview with Mr. McManus.