With something of its restlessness he hurried back to the hotel. Still
the stranger was not there, and no one had called for him. The room had
been put in order; the portmanteau, that sole connecting link with his
last night's experience, was under the table. He drew it out again, and
again subjected it to a minute examination. A few toilet articles, not
of the best quality, which he had overlooked at first, the linen, the
buckskin purse, the memorandum book, and the suit of clothes he stood
in, still comprised all he knew of his benefactor. He counted the money
in the purse; it amounted, with the Bank of England notes, to about
seventy dollars, as he could roughly guess. There was a scrap of paper,
the torn-off margin of a newspaper, lying in the purse, with an address
hastily scribbled in pencil. It gave, however, no name, only a number:
"85 California Street." It might be a clue. He put it, with the purse,
carefully in his pocket, and after hurriedly partaking of his forgotten
breakfast, again started out.

He presently found himself in the main thoroughfare of last night, which
he now knew to be Montgomery Street. It was more thronged than then,
but he failed to be impressed, as then, with the selfish activity of
the crowd. Yet he was half conscious that his own brighter fortune,
more decent attire, and satisfied hunger had something to do with this
change, and he glanced hurriedly at the druggist's broad plate-glass
windows, with a faint hope that the young girl whose amused pity he had
awakened might be there again. He found California Street quickly, and
in a few moments he stood before No. 85. He was a little disturbed
to find it a rather large building, and that it bore the inscription
"Bank." Then came the usual shock to his mercurial temperament, and for
the first time he began to consider the absurd hopelessness of his clue.

He, however, entered desperately, and approaching the window of the