unaware of his existence. He smiled at the thought, and wondered what
his friend, the editor, would say if he knew of it. And what about his
search for the missing man, Henry Redmond? Instead of throwing himself
earnestly and actively into the quest he was frittering away his time,
following the will-o'-the-wisp of a fancy, and going daft over a mere
slip of a girl who moved serenely apart from his world of thought and
being. He called himself a fool and chided himself over and over
again. But for all that, he was unable to tear her out of his heart
and mind. She seemed to belong to him, and to no one else.

"I believe that my experiences in France have affected my brain," he
muttered, as he at length rose to his feet. "I am sure I was not like
this before the war. But here I am now dazzled and mystified by a fair
face, a pair of sparkling eyes, and the charm of a name. This will
never do. I must shake off this fascination, or I shall be good for
nothing."

He walked rapidly down the hill, and then along a trail that wound
through a thicket of small fir trees. This brought him in a few
minutes to one of the streets leading straight to the river. He walked
slower now, much interested in the quaint log houses, with here and
there a miner's or a prospector's tent. Presently he saw before him a
large building, with galvanized roof and sides. People were entering
the place, and drawing nearer, the sound of music fell upon his ears.
A band was playing, he could easily tell, and it was dancing music at
that.

Reaching the building, Reynolds paused and listened. The music was
good, the best he had heard in a long time. Through an open door he
could see men playing billiards and pool. It was a lively and an