"You was, eh? Well, what was you going to tell me?"
"Mort Fryback went by here a couple of minutes ago an' he says for you to come into his store right away."
Anderson frowned. "I bet he's confessed."
"Who? Him? What's he got to confess?" demanded Alf.
"Never mind, never mind," said the Marshal quickly. "I'll step in and see him now."
Leaving his "reserves" standing in front of the Grand View, Mr. Crow hurried into Fryback's hardware store.
Mort was pacing—or, strictly speaking, stumping—back and forth behind the cutlery counter. His brow was corrugated with anxiety. The instant he saw the Marshal he uttered an exclamation that might have been construed as either relief, dismay or wrath. It was, as a matter of fact, inarticulate and therefore extremely difficult to classify. Anderson, however, deduced it as dismay. Mr. Fryback came out from behind the counter, stumped over to the stove, in which there was a crackling fire and, after opening the isinglass door, squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice upon the coals. Whereupon it became possible for him to articulate.
"I been lookin' everywhere fer you," said he, somewhat breathlessly. "Where you been?"
"'Tendin' to business," retorted Anderson. "What's the matter?"
Mr. Fryback took the precaution to ascertain that there were no listeners in the store. "Somebody—some woman, you c'n bet on that—told my wife last night that I poisoned old Mike."