"Not the slightest idea; I take it that's her business."

"Sure; but a feller can't help wonderin', can he? Donovan," he mused,
peering at the name; "that's Irish, I take it--hey?"

"Suspiciously so; you are some detective, Pete. I'll give you another
clue--her eyes are Irish grey."

He sauntered across to the stove, and stood looking idly at the
card-players, blue wreaths of tobacco smoke circling up from the bowl
of his pipe. Some one opened the street door, letting in a babel of
noise, and walked heavily across the office floor. Westcott turned
about to observe the newcomer. He was a burly, red-faced man, who had
evidently been drinking heavily, yet was not greatly under the
influence of liquor, dressed in a checked suit of good cut and fashion,
but hardly in the best of taste. His hat, a Stetson, was pushed back
on his head, and an unlighted cigar was clinched tightly between his
teeth. He bore all the earmarks of a commercial traveller of a certain
sort--a domineering personality, making up by sheer nerve what he might
lack in brains. But for his words the miner would have given the
fellow no further thought.

"Say, Timmons," he burst forth noisily, and striding over to the desk,
"the marshal tells me a dame blew in from New York to-night--is she
registered here?"

The landlord shoved the book forward, with one finger on the last
signature.

"Yep," he said shortly, "but she ain't the one you was lookin' for--I