He hung up his currycomb and walked back to the grain-box, where he found a leather billfold. Inside it were twenty dollars in currency, some personal cards of people he did not know—mostly San Francisco people—and two tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco.
There was no owner’s name, but Hashknife was satisfied that it belonged to Jack Pollock. He put it in his pocket, intending to turn it in at the Oasis. The stable-keeper was out watering horses, when he and Sleepy left the stable, so Hashknife did not get a chance to speak to him about the billfold.
As Hashknife and Sleepy walked up the street toward the hotel, Len Ayres rode in. He tied his horse at the Oasis, but came directly across the street to them.
“How are yuh this mornin’?” said Hashknife.
“I don’t know yet, Hartley. Take a look at this.”
Len handed Hashknife a sheet from a notebook, on which was pencilled in a rather delicate hand:
“Dear Mr. Ayres,—I have just received an urgent message to come at once to San Francisco, so I’m leaving now for Lobo Wells. You will hear from me later.
“Sincerely,
“Madge Singer.”
“What’s wrong about that?” asked Hashknife curiously.
“I don’t know,” confessed Len rather lamely. “It don’t look right to me, Hartley. She didn’t say anythin’ about⸺”
“Baggs went out after her, while you were here in town last night, eh?” Hashknife took it for granted that Baggs was the messenger.