The clerk grinned. "There ain’t no man here by the name of Jones."
"But there must be," Ross insisted stupidly. "There’s got to be! This is the only hotel in town, isn’t it?"
"Yep," grinned the clerk. "It’s the original Waldorf-Astory all right. Where does this here Jones hail from?"
"Omaha." There was unlimited dismay in Ross’s tone.
"Hain’t got any one from Omaha here, and hain’t had this winter."
Ross pulled the register toward him and began to scan the names. Instantly he exclaimed, "Bully! Steele. I’d forgotten him. I’ll see––"
"Not this trip!" the clerk interrupted lazily. "Ye must ’a’ met Steele. He went back on the stage to-night."
"Leonard, then. He’s here, isn’t he?"
"Nope," replied the clerk nonchalantly. "He’s in Basin. Home’s there, ye know."
Baffled, perplexed, Ross turned again to the register. The clerk had told the truth. There had been no guest entered from Omaha or any place further away than Montana in weeks. "See here," he exclaimed finally, "do you know anything about Leslie Jones, that went over to Meadow Creek with a man named Wilson a few weeks ago?"