"How long has this feller been here?" demanded Anderson, moving his left foot a little, but not quite far enough to avoid the broom. "Last night." "Um-m! What's his name and where's he from?" "Go and look at the register, and then you'll know as much as I do. It's a public register. Nothing secret about it." Anderson got up suddenly. "I guess I'll go look while you're sweepin' around here." The register on the little counter in the corner revealed the name of a single arrival below the flowing Spencerian hand of Willie Spence, the clerk, head waiter, porter and bell-boy of the Grand View Hotel. Willie, because of his proficiency as a chirographer, always wrote the date line in the register. He was strong on flourishes, but somewhat feeble in spelling. Any one with half an eye could see that there was something wrong with a date line that read: "Febury 25nd 1919." The lone guest's name, written in a tight "running" hand with total disregard for the elementary formation of letters, might have been almost anything that occupied less than two inches of space. Even his place of residence was a matter of doubt. 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."