The sheriff turned his back on Sandy and scowled. He did not glance at his late prisoner.
"I don’t want anything," declared Ross shortly. He planted himself resolutely in front of Sandy. "But I’d like to know where Leslie Jones’ father is?"
Sandy smiled easily, while the scowl faded from the sheriff’s face.
"I ain’t no city directory, Doc," responded Sandy, "and what’s more, I ain’t knowin’ of any Leslie Jones! His end name ain’t any more Jones than yours is. He’s fooled ye mighty bad–see?"
The blood rushed to Ross’s face. "N-not Jones?" he stammered. "Not Jones! What is it then?"
"Why, Doc, if he don’t want ye t’ know I ain’t got a call t’ tell ye. Be reasonable." Sandy spoke with maddening pleasantry and condescension. "A feller’s name is his own, and if he wants t’ keep it kinda fresh and unused I ain’t the one t’ dig it up ’n’ let it get covered with dust. Better go back t’ Meadow Creek and have it out with Leslie."
Ten minutes later, Ross, with a hot and angry face, was back in the lobby. His indignation burned against Leslie, who had, unconsciously, helped to put him in the hole in which he found himself. The subdued laugh which had marked his retreat from the barroom rang long in his ears. The sheriff’s laugh was the loudest.
"Arrest will serve him right!" muttered Ross as he entered the dining-room. "There isn’t a reason on earth why he shouldn’t have told me his right name when he told me the rest."
Angrily Ross ate his supper, glowering down at his plate and not noticing the entrance of the McKenzies with the sheriff.
After supper he went up to his room. The door was unlocked, the key having been long since lost. A single electric bulb swinging over the dresser was alight. Under the bulb lay a sealed and soiled envelope. Ross picked it up and turning it over came on the direction, "Doc Tenderfoot," in a sprawling and carefully careless hand. Wonderingly he opened the envelope. Within was a note written with a lead pencil on the back of a yellow advertising sheet. It ran: