“In a little cupboard I found a photograph of MacGregor, but it did not
lead to his capture.”
“Will you let me see it?” I said.
The picture showed a dark man with an evil face made more forbidding by a
long scar extending from near the temple diagonally downward into the
black mustache.
“By the way, Mr. Elderson,” said my affable host, “may I know why you
asked about ‘Macarger’s Gulch’?”
“I lost a mule near there once,” I replied, “and the mischance has—has
quite—upset me.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Morgan, with the mechanical intonation of an
interpreter translating, “the loss of Mr. Elderson’s mule has peppered
his coffee.”