“Well, I’m beat!” he exploded as emphatically as though another were listening.  “There must have been a general cleanup this time.  I fear that the report of my respected nephew—­” He checked himself suddenly, a bit guiltily.  Even though no one was listening, he was loath to voice an inevitable conclusion.  Decision, however, had triumphed over surprise at last, and, leaving the main street, he headed toward what the proud citizens denominated the residence quarter—­a handful of unpainted weather-stained one-story boxes, destitute of tree or of shrub surrounding as factory tenements.  The sun was positively hot now, and as he went he unbuttoned his vest and sighed in unconscious satisfaction at the relief.  At the second domicile, a residence as nearly like the first as a duplicate pea from the same pod, he turned in at the lane leading to the house unhesitatingly, and without form of knocking opened the door and stepped inside.

The room he entered was bare, depressingly so; bare as to its uncarpeted cottonwood floor, bare in its hard-finished, smoke-tinted walls.  In it, to the casual observer, there were visible but four objects:  an old-fashioned walnut desk that had once borne a top, but which did so no longer; two cane-bottomed chairs with rickety arms; and, seated in one thereof, a man.  The latter looked up as the visitor entered, revealing an unshaven chin and a pair of restless black eyes over the left of which the lid drooped appreciably.  He was smoking a long black stogie, and scattered upon his vest and in a semicircle surrounding his chair was a sprinkling of white ash from vanished predecessors.  Though he looked up when the other entered, and Landor returned the scrutiny, there was no salutation, not even when, without form of invitation, the rancher dropped into the vacant seat opposite and tossed his broad felt hat familiarly amid the litter of the desk.  A moment they sat so, while with an effort the newcomer recovered his breath.

“I thought I’d find you here, Chantry,” he initiated eventually.  “I’ve noticed that the last place to look for a doctor is in the proximity of a funeral.”  He fumbled in his pocket and produced a stogie, mate to that in the other’s mouth.  “This particular ceremony, by the way, I gather from the appearance of the metropolis, must have been of more than ordinary interest.”  And lighting a match he puffed until his face was concealed.

“Rather,” laconically.

“Never mind the details,” Landor prevented hurriedly.  The haze had cleared somewhat, and he observed his taciturn companion appreciatively.  “I left Mary up with Jim Burton’s wife, and I think she can be trusted to attend to such little matters.”

Chantry smoked on without comment, but his restless black eyes were observing the other shrewdly.  Not without result had the two men known each other these five years.

“It’s a great convenience, this having women in the family,” commented Landor impersonally.  “It’s better than a daily paper, any time.”  Again the deliberate, appreciate look.  “You haven’t decided yet to prove the fact for yourself, have you?”