At eight o'clock in the morning Corrigan came out of the dining-room of his hotel and stopped at the cigar counter. He filled his case, lit one, and stood for a moment with an elbow on the glass of the show case, smoking thoughtfully. "That was quite an accident you had at your mine. Have you any idea who did it?" asked the clerk, watching him furtively. Corrigan glanced at the man, his lips curling. "You might guess," he said through his teeth. "That fellow Trevison is a bad actor," continued the clerk. "And say," he went on, confidentially; "not that I want to make you feel bad, but the majority of the people of this town are standing with him in this deal. They think you are not giving the land-owners a square deal. Not that I'm 'knocking' _you_," the clerk denied, flushing at the dark look Corrigan threw him. "That's merely what I hear. Personally, I'm for you. This town needs men like you, and it can get along without fellows like Trevison." "Thank you," smiled Corrigan, disgusted with the man, but feeling that it might be well to cultivate such ingratiating interest. "Have a cigar." "I'll go you. Yes, sir," he added, when he had got the weed going; "this town can get along without any Trevisons. These sagebrush rummies out here give me a pain. What this country needs is less brute force and more brains!" He drew his shoulders erect as though convinced that he was not lacking in the particular virtue to which he had referred. "You are right," smiled Corrigan, mildly. "Brains are all important. A hotel clerk must be well supplied. I presume you see and hear a great many things that other people miss seeing and hearing." Corrigan thought this thermometer of public opinion might have other information. "You've said it! We've got to keep our wits about us. There's very little escapes us." He leered at Corrigan's profile. "That's a swell Moll in number eleven, ain't it?" "What do you know about her?" Corrigan's face was inexpressive. "Oh say now!" The clerk guffawed close to Corrigan's ear without making the big man wink an eyelash. "You don't mean to tell me that you ain't _on_! I saw you steer to her room one night--the night she came here. And once or twice, since. But of course us hotel clerks don't see anything! She is down on the register as Mrs. Harvey. But say! You don't see any married women running around the country dressed like her!" "She may be a widow." "Well, yes, maybe she might. But she shows speed, don't she?" He whispered. "You're a pretty good friend of mine, now, and maybe if I'd give you a tip you'd throw something in my way later on--eh?" "What?" "Oh, you might start a hotel here--or something. And I'm thinking of blowing this joint. This town's booming, and it can stand a swell hotel in a few months." "You're on--if I build a hotel. Shoot!" The clerk leaned closer, whispering: "She receives other men. You're not the only one." "Who?"