He knew the letter to David from beginning to end, but he got it out and read it again.  Who was this Bassett, and what mischief was he up to?  Why should he himself be got out of town quickly and the warning burned?  Who was “G”?  And why wouldn’t the simplest thing be to locate this Bassett himself?

The more he considered that the more obvious it seemed as a solution, provided of course he could locate the man.  Whether Bassett were friendly or inimical, he was convinced that he knew or was finding out something concerning himself which David was keeping from him.

He was relieved when he went down to the desk to find that his man was registered there, although the clerk reported him out of town.  But the very fact that only a few hours or days separated him from a solution of the mystery heartened him.

He ate his dinner alone, unnoticed, and after dinner, in the writing room, with its mission furniture and its traveling men copying orders, he wrote a letter to Elizabeth.  Into it he put some of the things that lay too deep for speech when he was with her, and because he had so much to say and therefore wrote extremely fast, a considerable portion of it was practically illegible.  Then, as though he could hurry the trains East, he put a special delivery stamp on it.

With that off his mind, and the need of exercise after the trip insistent, he took his hat and wandered out into the town.  The main street was crowded; moving picture theaters were summoning their evening audiences with bright lights and colored posters, and automobiles lined the curb.  But here and there an Indian with braids and a Stetson hat, or a cowpuncher from a ranch in boots and spurs reminded him that after all this was the West, the horse and cattle country.  It was still twilight, and when he had left the main street behind him he began to have a sense of the familiar.  Surely he had stood here before, had seen the court-house on its low hill, the row of frame houses in small gardens just across the street.  It seemed infinitely long ago, but very real.  He even remembered dimly an open place at the other side of the building where the ranchmen tied their horses.  To test himself he walked around.  Yes, it was there, but no horses stood there now, heads drooping, bridle reins thrown loosely over the rail.  Only a muddy automobile, without lights, and a dog on guard beside it.

He spoke to the dog, and it came and sniffed at him.  Then it squatted in front of him, looking up into his face.

“Lonely, old chap, aren’t you?” he said.  “Well, you’ve got nothing on me.”

He felt a little cheered as he turned back toward the hotel.  A few encounters with the things of his youth, and perhaps the cloud would clear away.  Already the court-house had stirred some memories.  And on turning back down the hill he had another swift vision, photographically distinct but unrelated to anything that had preceded or followed it.  It was like a few feet cut from a moving picture film.