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It was a fallen headboard, and painted on it were the hardly decipherable words, "Catharine Larue." "Larue, Larue!" exclaimed Holker, with sudden animation. "Why, that is the real name of Branscom not Pardee. And bless my soul! how it all comes to me the murdered woman's name had been Frayser!" "There is some rascally mystery here," said Detective Jaralson. "I hate anything of that kind."
All this the two men observed without speaking almost at a glance. Then Holker said: "Poor devil! he had a rough deal." Jaralson was making a vigilant circumspection of the forest, his shotgun held in both hands and at full cock, his finger upon the trigger. "The work of a maniac," he said, without withdrawing his eyes from the inclosing wood. "It was done by Branscom Pardee."
"You remember Branscom?" said Jaralson, treating his companion's wit with the inattention that it deserved. "The chap who cut his wife's throat? I ought; I wasted a week's work on him and had my expenses for my trouble. There is a reward of five hundred dollars, but none of us ever got a sight of him. You don't mean to say " "Yes, I do. He has been under the noses of you fellows all the time.
"All right," Holker said; "we will go and view the ground," and he added, in the words of a once favorite inscription for tombstones: "'where you must shortly lie' I mean, if old Branscom ever gets tired of you and your impertinent intrusion. By the way, I heard the other day that 'Branscom' was not his real name." "What is?" "I can't recall it.
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