“Why no, honey, I don’t reckon I did, not to my ricollection.”
“That’s queer. I know I didn’t——”
Melissy broke her sentence sharply. There had come into her eyes a spark of excitement, simultaneous with the brain-flash which told her who had left the money. No doubt the quarter and the half dollar had been lying there ever since the day last week when Morse had eaten at the Bar Double G. She addressed an envelope, dropped the money in, sealed the flap, and put the package beside a letter addressed to T. L. Morse.
Lee, full of an unhappy restlessness which he could not control, presently got up and moved away to the stables. He was blaming himself bitterly for the events of the past few days.
It was perhaps half an hour later that Melissy 110 looked up to see the sturdy figure of Morse in the doorway. During the past year he had filled out, grown stronger and more rugged. His deep tan and heavy stride pronounced him an outdoor man no less surely than the corduroy suit and the high laced miners’ boots.
He came forward to the postoffice window without any sign of recognition.
“Is Mr. Flatray still here?”
“No!” Without further explanation Melissy took from the box the two letters addressed to Morse and handed them to him.
The girl observed the puzzled look that stole over his face at sight of the silver in one envelope. A glance at the business address printed on the upper left hand corner enlightened him. He laid the money down in the stamp window.
“This isn’t mine.”