when he reached the hotel after putting up his horse in the shed behind
the old building. Half a dozen dark forms sat on the veranda talking in
the subdued voices which he had noted before. Terry stepped through the
lighted doorway. There was no one inside.

"Want something?" called a voice from the porch. The widow Rickson came
in to him.

"A room, please," said Terry.

But she was gaping at him. "You! Terence--Hollis!"

A thousand things seemed to be in that last word, which she brought out
with a shrill ring of her voice. Terry noted that the talking on the
porch was cut off as though a hand had been clapped over the mouth of
every man.

He recalled that the widow had been long a friend of the sheriff and he
was suddenly embarrassed.

"If you have a spare room, Mrs. Rickson. Otherwise, I'll find--"

Her manner had changed. It became as strangely ingratiating as it had
been horrified, suspicious, before.

"Sure I got a room. Best in the house, if you want it. And--you'll be
hungry, Mr.--Hollis?"

He wondered why she insisted so savagely on that newfound name? He
admitted that he was very hungry from his ride, and she led him back to