“Morning,” he said, without attempting to rise.  “Lie down thar, Towser; the lady don’t likely want yer nosin’ around.  Yer a bit late fer breakfast; it’s ginerally over with by eight o’clock.”

“I am not at all hungry,” she answered.  “Is it far to the post-office?”

“‘Bout two blocks, ter yer right.  If yer intendin’ ter stay yere, ye better have yer mail sent ter the hotel.”

“Thank you; I’ll see.  I do not know yet the length of my stay.”

“Are ye yere on business?”

“Partly; but it may require only a few days.”

“Waal, if yer do stay over, maybe I kin fix yer up a bit more comfortable-like.  Thar’ll be some drummers a goin’ out to-day, I reckon.”

“Thank you very much; I’ll let you know what I decide the moment I know myself.  Is that a hunting-dog?”

“Bones mostly,” he responded gloomily, but stroking the animal’s head.  “Leastwise, he ain’t been trained none.  I just naturally like a darg round fer company—­they sorter seem homelike.”

She passed out into the bright sunshine, and clear mountain air.  The board-walk ended at the corner of the hotel, but a narrow cinder-patch continued down that side of the street for some distance.  The houses were scattered, the vacant spaces between grown up to weeds, and more or less ornamented by tin cans, and as she advanced she encountered only two pedestrians—­a cowboy, so drunk that he hung desperately to the upper board of a fence in order to let her pass, staring at her as if she was some vision, and a burly fellow in a checked suit, with some mail in his hand, who stopped after they had passed each other, and gazed back at her as though more than ordinarily interested.  From the hotel stoop he watched until she vanished within the general store, which contained the post-office.

Through the rude window the clerk pushed a plain manila envelope into her outstretched hand.  Evidently from the thinness of the letter, Farriss had but few instructions to give and, thrusting the unopened missive into her hand-bag, she retraced her steps to her room.

There she vented a startled gasp.  The suitcase which she had left closed upon the floor was open—­wide open—­its contents disarranged.  Some one had rummaged it thoroughly.  And Miss Donovan knew that she was under suspicion.

CHAPTER X:  AT A NEW ANGLE

The knowledge that she was thus being spied upon gave the girl a sudden thrill, but not of fear.  Instead it served to strengthen her resolve.  There had been nothing in her valise to show who she really was, or why she was in Haskell, and consequently, if any vague suspicion had been aroused as to her presence in that community, the searchers had discovered no proof by this rifling of her bag.

She examined the room thoroughly, and glanced out into the still, deserted hall before bolting the door.  The cracks in the wall were scarcely wide enough to be dangerous, yet she took the precaution of shrinking back into the darkest corner before opening her hand-bag and extracting the letter.  It bore a typewritten address, with no suspicious characteristics about the envelope, the return card (typewritten also) being the home address of Farriss.