“I don’t think she has been invited by any one, Harp. I know she didn’t want to go with Leach; so that was her excuse.” Mrs. Wesson bustled on down the sidewalk, leaving Harp looking after her. He cuffed his hat over one ear and hitched up his belt, as he headed for the office. He wanted to find a place where he could sit down alone, because his soul was filled with joy and he wanted to express his feelings with music. It was nearly supper-time when Brick and Soapy drove into Marlin City. Soapy had promised Barney Devine to have the money for the payroll out to the mine by noon the next day, and now he hungered for a session of poker. Brick was stiff and sore from his fall off the grade, but he got a bite to eat at the restaurant, saddled his horse and headed for Silverton. Brick was certain that someone knew about Soapy going to take the payroll money to the Red Hill mine. Soapy had sworn that no one knew about it, but Brick knew that Soapy was just a trifle absent-minded. Brick tied his horse to the Short Horn hitch-rack and went into the saloon. The games were in progress, but there were few players. Several men nodded to Brick as he came in and went to the bar. Brick knew Charley Meecham, the cashier of the bank, but did not know where Meecham lived; so he inquired of the bartender. “Charley Meecham? Yeah, I know where he lives.” The bartender leaned on the bar and drew an imaginary map on the top of the bar with a stubby finger. “That’s the old Wheaton house, ain’t it?” queried Brick. “Yeah, sure. Meecham has been livin’ there nearly a year now. Nice feller, Charley is.” Brick nodded and went down the street, past McGill’s saloon, turning to the left and going to an old two-story dwelling-house, which was set back considerable distance from the street. Mrs. Meecham answered his knock. Brick had never met her, but knew her by sight. Mrs. Meecham was a thin, angular, rather young woman, with a mop of blond hair and a knack of talking about everything that was none of her business. “Charley’s up at the bank,” she told Brick. “He went up to do a little work. Won’t you come in? You’re Mr. Davidson, the sheriff, ain’tcha? Uh-huh, I’m Mrs. Meecham. Come on in and set down in the parlor. “Nice weather, ain’t it? Charley will be back pretty soon, I think. How is everythin’ in Marlin City? I met your new school-teacher at the last dance. Nice girl. Take that chair over there. This one looks solid, but it ain’t. Sam set down on it the other night and it spread out on him.” Brick sat down and balanced his sombrero on his knees. Mrs. Meecham made him feel nervous. The parlor was a stuffy little room, high-ceiled, with the walls plentifully hung with crayon portraits. An upright organ occupied one corner, and Brick prayed internally that Mrs. Meecham wouldn’t attempt to entertain him with music.