You Know Who.
Though he did not know who, Curly thought he could give a pretty good guess both as to the author and the business that needed talking over.
Through the open door of the hotel he saw Sam approaching. Quickly he sealed the flap of the envelope again, and held it pressed against his fingers while he waited.
“A letter for you, Sam.”
Cullison tore open the envelope and read the note.
“A friend of mine has come to town and wants to see me,” he explained.
To help out his bluff, Curly sprang the feeble-minded jest on him. “Blonde or brunette?”
“I’m no lady’s man,” Sam protested, content to let the other follow a wrong scent.
“Sure not. It never is a lady,” Flandrau called after him as he departed.
But Sam had no more than turned the corner before Curly was out of a side door and cutting through an alley toward Chalkeye’s place. Reaching the back door of the saloon, he opened it a few inches and peered in. A minute later Sam opened the front screen and asked a question of the man in the apron. The bartender gave a jerk of his thumb. Sam walked toward the rear and turned in at the second private booth.