"No. No trouble."
The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. "Nineteen-oh-one," he said. "I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be dern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age."
"I guess you're right."
The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. "Lots of funny stories about old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place."
"I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?"
"Maybe so." The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look. "There's one story that's not superstition...."
Tremaine waited.
"You—uh—paying anything for information?"
"Now why would I do that?" Tremaine reached for the door knob.
The clerk shrugged. "Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this. Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup."