Softly stepping over the thick carpets, which deadened the sound of
the crutches--now becoming scarcely necessary to her--the young girl
passed along the corridor, passing angles and turns innumerable on her
way to her room. Some erratic architect certainly concocted the
plan of the Hotel del Coronado. It is a very labyrinth of passages
connecting; its nine hundred rooms, and one has to have a good bump of
location to avoid getting lost in its mazes.

Near one of the abrupt turns a door stood ajar, and in passing Myrtle
glanced in, and then paused involuntarily. It was a small parlor,
prettily furnished, and in a big chair reclined a man whose hands were
both pressed tight against his face, thus covering it completely. But
Myrtle knew him. The thin frame, as well as the despairing attitude,
marked him as the man who had come so strangely into her life and
whose personality affected her so strangely. She now stood in the
dimly lighted corridor looking in upon him with infinite pity, and as
she looked her glance fell upon the table beside him, where something
bright glittered beneath the electric lamps.

Her heart gave a sudden thump of mingled fear and dismay. She knew
intuitively what that "something" was. "Let him," Uncle John had said;
but Myrtle instantly determined _not_ to let him.

She hesitated a moment; but seeing that the man remained motionless,
his eyes still covered, as if lost to all his surroundings, she softly
crept forward and entered the room. She held the crutches under her
arms, but dared not use them for fear of making a noise. Step by step
she stole forward until the table was within reach. Then she stretched