“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about it,” returned Sol. “Doctor Allison has been down to the jail to see him, and though there’s a lump on the man’s head as big as an egg, the doc says it’s nothing serious.”
“How long has he been staying here?” asked Joe.
“Nearly a week,” replied Sol. “It would be a week tonight if he’d stayed.”
“And hadn’t you noticed anything that might make you think he was off his head?” queried Joe.
“Not the least thing,” was the answer. “He was as quiet and well behaved as any man could be. He kept a good deal to himself and didn’t seem to know any one in town, so that I wondered sometimes just what his idea was in coming here. But that’s none of my business as long as he pays his bills, and I didn’t have any complaint on that score. Paid me a week in advance as soon as he had planked down his grip and registered. Paid it from a big roll of bills, too, so that it probably wasn’t money worry that made him go mad. I thought he might be one of them literary fellows that come to a quiet town sometimes to write a book.”
“And you’re sure his name is Talham Tabbs?”
“That’s the name he registered by,” answered Sol, at the same time turning the hotel register around so that the group could plainly see the name written in a firm business hand. “Then too, his laundry has the initials T. T., and the same letters are on his valise. I guess that’s his handle all right.”
“You ought to know his name, Joe,” jibed Tom Davis. “You’re both members of the same secret society.”
There was a roar of laughter as they recalled the ridiculous signs that Joe had made and the gravity with which the madman had imitated them.