On she went, changing her suit-case from one tired hand to the other, looking here, looking there, just as she had done in the Seattle streets. She had gone about all these last days consciously braced for a final encounter with Cheviot—a last attempt on his part to make her abandon the undertaking. That, of course, was the reason he had not written, nor even telegraphed, to say good-by. There was nothing surly, or even sullen, about Cheviot. Though they had parted “like that,” he wouldn’t be willing she should go without his making some sign. Not having done so could only mean—Oh, she knew what it meant. She dramatized the coming scene—saw herself being “quite firm,” defeating, utterly routing him. But in order to carry out the program she mustn’t let him take her by surprise. And as now over this shoulder, now over that, she scrutinized the faces in the crowd, she felt her heart beat as she thought of the coming conflict. And the pink color rose in her face. She had been afraid “the boys” might want to turn her back. In her heart of hearts she was afraid that Louis, in some way not clearly foreseen, would succeed. She went forward with the sense of one escaping from a definite peril. At last, rather out of breath, she dropped her suit-case before the door of the brightly lighted baggage-room. Just inside was a man in his shirt-sleeves, and beyond him— “_There’s_ my trunk!” she cried out, with the cheerful air of one descrying a valued friend. “Want it checked?” “Yes, please.” “Where’s it goin’?” “To Nome, of course,” answered Hildegarde, panting a little and straightening her hat. “Nobody is going anywhere else, are they?” she added, a little impatient at the man’s staring and delay. “N-no. I guess not. But—” He grinned good-humoredly. “I didn’t think you looked like a Nomer.” Here was a blow at the very start. Hildegarde glanced down at her plain clothes, and decided the man was mistaken. But he checked her trunk, her provision-box, her bag, her deck-chair, and her roll of wraps, and she, declining to give up the suit-case, turned about to make her way among the people, massed thicker than ever in this direction. For over yonder, hidden by the crowd, was the gate whose opening would give access to the _Los Angeles_. Progress here more difficult than ever.