Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re having these days.”
“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you happened to keep one of those warnings.”
The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.
“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.
“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”
“May I take a look at it?”
“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”
The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.
Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark—Fordhill Bond. Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.