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red lantern swung within a foot of the chair that Laird had been occupying。 The light showed the huddled； motionless form of a man。 His head was forward on his chest。 His breath was ing in short； audible gasps。
The brakeman set down the lantern and shook the huddled body。 There was no response。 Quickly the train hand swung the helpless man into the closed part of the car； and dropped him on a long couch。
The light in the car showed a horrible sight。 Stephen Laird's chest was covered with blood。 His coat and vest were ripped to shreds。 He had been brutally stabbed！
The brakeman dropped to his knees to support the gory victim； and shouted for the porter。 The latter brought the conductor； who tried to force water between Laird's lips。
Both the brakeman and the conductor focused their eyes on the crimson sign that stood out like a beacon against the deathly pallor of Laird's forehead。
The porter ran to try and find a doctor。 It was immediately apparent that without medical assistance； Laird would not live the few minutes it would take the train to get to Truckee and a hospital。
Laird's lips were moving。 The conductor bent over； trying to catch something that would give a clew to the attack。
〃Eyes；〃 said the dying man。 〃Green eyes！〃
The conductor reached for a slip of paper。 He urged Laird to speak further。
〃In the box；〃 was all he could distinguish。
〃Yes；〃 said the conductor。 〃In the box。 What box？〃
〃See…〃 The words were cut off by a gurgle of blood issuing from Laird's pale lips。
The dying man said something indistinguishable。 The conductor crouched closer。
〃T…A…G…〃 A pause； and then： 〃A…〃 The pale lips and dimming brain were trying to say something of such importance that it had to be spelled。 The conductor wrote down the letters。
They were the last that Stephen Laird ever said。 His mouth opened； and more blood gushed forth。 His fingers twitched twice； and then stiffened。
A physician； hastily aroused by the observation…car porter； hurried in； dressed in trousers over pajamas。 He bent over Laird a moment； and then straightened。
〃He's dead；〃 he said。 〃Murdered！〃
THE conductor went through Laird's pocket； looking for a railroad check。
He found it； in an envelope marked Stephen Laird。 He wrote the name on a sheet of paper； and then copied his notes。 He read them to the doctor：
〃 'See in the box。 Tag A。' He tried to spell it。 'T…A…G'…then； he managed to gasp out the letter 'A。' That was all he was able to say。〃
The brakeman went out on the platform where he had found Laird's body。 He called to the conductor； pointed to the blood…stained corner of the platform； and held up a piece of white paper。
〃Right here； where I found…found him； there was this。〃
The conductor took the fragment。 It was part of the blotter that Laird had thrust into his pocket in the club car。 This scrap bore only two letters： R and D； in reverse； the last letters of the murdered man's signature。
The conductor did not realize this。 He searched for the rest of the blotter； in vain。
〃Go up ahead；〃 he said to the brakeman； 〃and bring back the porter from the club car。 Maybe he'll know something。 This looks like one of the line's blotters。〃
The porter； brought in by the brakeman； eyed the body cautiously。
〃Yes； suh；〃 he said。 〃That's the one； suh。 He give me a letter； suh； jus'
a li'l while ago。 I got it heah； Misteh Conductuh； right heah in the mail foh Truckee。〃
While he spoke； he had been searching through the mail for Truckee。 There was no envelope with Stephen Laird's name on the corner。
Meanwhile the observation…car porter and the brakeman had been having trouble keeping curious passengers out of the car。 The brakeman called to the conductor。
〃Here's a gentleman who says he's from the newspapers； conductor。 Shall I let him in？〃
The conductor nodded his assent。 A man bustled forward； dressed； like the doctor； in pajamas and trousers。 He showed the conductor his credentials。 He was a correspondent from one of the newspaper syndicates； returning from a Western story。
The conductor told this man what he knew about the murder。 The latter's eyes glistened。 This was a fine story。 〃Murder on the Mountain Limited。〃 He could already see the headlines。
He made a special note of the mysterious last words of Stephen Laird。
〃Laird said something； too； about eyes；〃 remarked the conductor thoughtfully。 〃Green eyes； as I remember it。 But that was when I first got there。 This is all I have written down： 'In the box；' and then 'see；' and then this about 'Tag A；' that he tried to spell。〃
Up ahead； the whistle blasted through the night。 The train was ing into Truckee； where the authorities would take over the body and the mystery。
The little group of men around the dead man dropped into silence。 The correspondent was sitting down scribbling off a telegram to file at the station。
But he said nothing about the red mark on Stephen Laird's forehead； because no one had thought to mention it。
That mark was scarcely noticeable now。 It was nothing more than a faint blur。
Living； the red mark on Laird's forehead had impressed three men： the porter； the conductor； and the brakeman。
Now that Laird was dead； the mark was dying； too； as though it were connected with his soul； rather than with his body。 In the excitement； the mark was forgotten。
The porter had been sent back to his car。 All that the newspapers and the authorities were told was that a man had been found stabbed on the observation platform； a fragment of blotter had been found beside him； he had uttered certain vague words and letters before his death； and a letter which he had written had been stolen。
But of all the details marking the murder of Stephen Laird； that vanished crimson mark was most significant。 For it was that sign that brought him to his doom！
That spot that shone like blood was the mark of death！ Now； death had struck； and its mark…no longer needed…was gone！
CHAPTER II
THE FACE FROM THE DARK
SEVERAL days had passed since the strange death of Stephen Laird； passenger on the Mountain Limited。 The case had created a wide sensation at first。 Now； with no solution toward the mystery； it had dropped into prompt oblivion。
It was evening； in San Francisco。 A tall； well…dressed man entered the lobby of the Aldebaran Hotel； carrying a light suitcase。 He stepped up to the desk to register。 The clerk noted the name which the writer fashioned in a clear； sweeping hand。
The new guest's name was Henry Arnaud。
〃What kind of a room would you like； Mr。 Arnaud？〃 questioned the clerk。
〃I should prefer one on the top floor；〃 was the reply。
The clerk looked over the list of vacant rooms。 The Aldebaran was a second…rate hostelry； and was never filled with guests。 But due to its location on one of the noisy streets that angle northward from Market； the rooms on the upper floors were always occupied。 At present； there was just one vacancy on the eighth floor； the highest story in the house。 The clerk passed it by。
〃I can give you something on the seventh…〃
〃No；