“Oh, no; not now. I was going to take you direct to my room. Now we are going to a hotel with all the publicity we can get. Here we are.” “Internaytional! Internaytional!” shouted a runner by our side. “Yes, sir; here you are, sir. Free 'bus, sir.” And in another moment we were in the lumbering coach, and as soon as the last lingering passenger had come from the boat we were whirling over the rough pavement, through a confusing maze of streets, past long rows of dingy, ugly buildings, to the hotel. Though the sun had but just set, the lights were glimmering in the windows along Kearny Street as we stepped from the 'bus, and the twilight was rapidly fading into darkness. “A room for the night,” ordered Henry, as we entered the hotel office and saluted the clerk. “Your brother will sleep with you?” inquired the clerk. “Yes.” “That's right--if you are sure you can tell which is which in the morning,” said the clerk, with a smile at his poor joke. Henry smiled in return, paid the bill, took the key, and we were shown to our room. After removing the travel-stains, I declared myself quite ready to dine. “We won't need this again,” said Henry, tossing the key on the bureau as we left. “Or no, on second thought,” he continued, “it's just as well to leave the door locked. There might be some inquisitive callers.” And we betook ourselves to a hasty meal that was not of a nature to raise my opinion of San Francisco. “Are you through?” asked my companion, as I shook my head over a melancholy piece of pie, and laid down my fork. “Well, take your bag. This door--look pleasant and say nothing.” He led the way to the bar and then through a back room or two, until with a turn we were in a blind alley. With a few more steps we found ourselves in a back hall which led into another building. I became confused after a little, and lost all idea of the direction in which we were going. We mounted one flight of stairs, I remember, and after passing through two or three winding hallways and down another flight, came out on a side street. After a pause to observe the street before we ventured forth, Henry said: “I guess we're all right now. We must chance it, anyhow.” So we dodged along in the shadow till we came to Montgomery Street, and after a brief walk, turned into a gloomy doorway and mounted a worn pair of stairs. The house was three stories in height. It stood on the corner of an alley, and the lower floor was intended for a store or saloon; but a renting agent's sign and a collection of old show-bills ornamenting the dirty windows testified that it was vacant. The liquor business appeared to be overdone in that quarter, for across the alley, hardly twenty feet away, was a saloon; across Montgomery Street was another; and two more held out their friendly lights on the corner of the street above.