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The Marshal put on his spectacles and studied the signature. As far as he could make out, the man’s name was something like “Winnumnn Millmmmln.” It was a name that baffled him. The longer he studied it, the worse it became.

“Seems to me, Jennie, if I was runnin’ this hotel, I’d have Willie Spence register for the guests, and save ’em the trouble.”

“Can’t you make it out?”

“Course I can,” he replied promptly. “It’s as plain as day to me, but I’ll bet you a good cigar you can’t make it out.”

She fell into the trap. “All right, I take you up. It’s Mr. & Mrs. George F. Fox.”

Mr. Crow stared at her for a second or two. Then he recovered himself. “You’re right,” he said. “What kind of a cigar do you smoke, Jennie?”

As he had feared, she promptly named the highest-priced cigar she had in stock, a three-for-a-quarter brand, and then coolly announced that if he’d leave a dime on the show case, she’d get it.

“Got his wife with him, I see,” remarked Anderson.

“Yep,” said Mrs. Bloomer.

“What’s his business?”

“I asked him last night,” said she, pausing in her work to fix Anderson with a rather penetrating look. “He said he was a trained elephant.”

“A–a what?”

“A trained elephant.”

“You don’t say so!”

“And his wife is a snake-charmer,” she added uneasily.

Anderson blinked rapidly. “Well, of all the–But what on earth’s he doing here in Tinkletown?”

“I didn’t ask any more questions after that,” said she, with a furtive glance up the stairway. “I’d give a good deal to know what they’ve got in them big black valises they brought with ’em. Three times as big as regular valises, with brass trimmin’s. I hope she aint got any reptiles in ’em.”

Marshal Crow took that instant to consult the office clock. “By ginger!” he exclaimed, with some sprightliness. “I got to be movin’ along. I’m follerin’ up a clue in that dog case.”

Mrs. Bloomer’s anxious gaze was bent on a dark corner back of the stairway.

“I do hope, if she has got any snakes in them valises, she won’t let ’em get loose and go crawlin’ all over the place. I—-“

Mr. Crow sent a quick, searching look about the office as he strode toward the door.

“Ain’t you going up to his room?” inquired Mrs. Bloomer.

“Not just now,” replied Anderson, and closed the door quickly behind him.

Alf Reesling and his companions were waiting impatiently on the sidewalk. They were actively disappointed when the Marshal emerged empty-handed.

“Was he too much fer you?” was Alf’s scathing inquiry.

“How many times have I got to tell you, Alf, that I’m able to deduce these cases without your assistance? Now, this is a big case, and you leave it to me to handle. When I get ready to act, you’ll hear something that will make your hair stand on end. Hold on, Newt! Don’t ask any questions. Don’t—-“

“I wasn’t going to ask any questions,” snapped Newt. “I was going to tell you something.”

“You was, eh? Well, what was you going to tell me?”

“Mort Fryback went by here a couple of minutes ago an’ he says for you to come into his store right away.”

Anderson frowned. “I bet he’s confessed.”

“Who? Him? What’s he got to confess?” demanded Alf.

“Never mind, never mind,” said the Marshal quickly. “I’ll step in and see him now.”

Leaving his “reserves” standing in front of the Grand View, Mr. Crow hurried into Fryback’s hardware store.

Mort was pacing–or, strictly speaking, stumping–back and forth behind the cutlery counter. His brow was corrugated with anxiety. The instant he saw the Marshal he uttered an exclamation that might have been construed as either relief, dismay or wrath. It was, as a matter of fact, inarticulate and therefore extremely difficult to classify. Anderson, however, deduced it as dismay. Mr. Fryback came out from behind the counter, stumped over to the stove, in which there was a crackling fire and, after opening the isinglass door, squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice upon the coals. Whereupon it became possible for him to articulate.