“I am awfully glad to meet you, Mrs. Beebe,” said Swiftwater, advancing with step as noiseless as a Maltese cat, as he walked across the heavy plush carpet. Swiftwater put out a soft womanish hand, grasped mine and spoke in a low musical voice, the kind of voice that instantly wins the confidence of nine women out of ten. “I have heard that you were going in this spring, and as I know how hard it is for a woman to get along in that country without someone to befriend her, I was very glad indeed to have the chance of extending you all the aid in my power,” continued Swiftwater, in the meantime glancing in an interested way at Blanche, who stood near the piano. “This is my daughter, Blanche, Mr. Gates,” I said. Blanche was then nineteen years old, and I had taken her out of the Convent school in Portland to keep me company in the north, along with Bera. It only took us a few minutes to agree that when I arrived in Dawson, if Swiftwater was there first, he should help me in getting a location for my hotel and settling down. Then, as I arose to go, he said, turning again to Blanche: “Doesn’t your daughter play the piano, Mrs. Beebe? I am very fond of music.” Blanche, at a nod from me, sat down and began to play some simple little thing, when Swiftwater said: “Please excuse me, I have a friend with me.” In a moment Swiftwater returned and introduced his friend, a tall, lithe, clean-cut, smooth shaven Englishman of about thirty-five--Mr. Hathaway. Five minutes later, Blanche having pleased both men with her playing, arose from the piano. “Now, we are just going down to dinner in the grill; won’t you please join us, ladies?” said Swiftwater in those deliciously velvet tones which seemed to put any woman at perfect ease in his company. A shivery feeling came over me, and I said: “No, I think we will go right home.” Now, I never could tell for the life of me just what made me want to hurry away with my Blanche from the hotel and Swiftwater Bill. His friend Hathaway was a nice clean looking sort of a chap and very gentlemanly, and Swiftwater was the absolute quintessence of gentlemanly conduct and chivalry. But the papers had told all about Swiftwater and Gussie and Grace Lamore--only that the reporters, as well as the general public, seemed to regard it all as a joke--Gussie’s turning down Swiftwater after he had given her her weight in gold--about $30,000 in virgin dust and nuggets--and then Bill’s marrying Grace, her sister, for spite. The whole yarn struck me so funny, that as we walked, with difficulty, through the crowds on Second Avenue to our apartments, I could not think of anything mean or vicious about Swiftwater.