The way that little dried-up sinner found out everything was positively uncanny.
Frosty, as I soon discovered, was not in Kenmore.

He had been, for I learned by inquiring around that he had passed the night there at that one little hotel.

Also that he had, not more than two hours before--or three, at most--hired a rig and driven on to Osage.

A man told me that he had taken a lady with him; but, knowing Frosty as I did, I couldn't quite swallow that.

It was queer, though, about his hiring a rig and leaving his saddle-horse there in the stable.