Down to the Hotel Northern, then the Butler, the Rainier-Grand and the Stevens and all the rest I went and searched the registers without avail. As I remember now, it took me the greater part of a day to cover all the ground. Finally, by a curious chance I located Swiftwater at the Victoria Hotel. I waited until the next morning and then went to the Victoria and asked for Gates. Swiftwater, the clerk said, was out--had not been seen but once since his arrival. I am not going to say whether or not it was the humor of the situation or the bitter resentment I bore toward him that led me to tramp up three flights of stairs to the little parlor on the landing close to Swiftwater’s room, and to wait there ten hours at a stretch--until 1:10 in the morning. Then I went home, only to return at 8 o’clock the next day. “Mr. Gates is in his room, but he is asleep,” said the clerk. “I am Mrs. Beebe, his mother-in-law, and I want to see him now and I shall go direct to his room. You can go with me if you desire,” said I. The little clerk scanned me carefully and then said, “Very well.” We went upstairs together. The clerk rapped on the door twice. There was no answer. “I guess he’s out,” said the boy. “Knock again--good and loud,” I commanded. The boy rapped and just then the door opened a tiny way--about an inch, I guess, but through that little crack I saw the eye and part of the curling black moustache of Swiftwater Bill. Then I threw myself against the door and walked in. [Illustration: “COME OUT OF THAT, BILL! I HAVEN’T GOT A GUN.”] I wish I could tell you how funny was Swiftwater’s apparition, as, clad only in his white night robe, he jumped into bed, pulling the covers over his head. This was the first time that Swiftwater had seen me since he left me in Dawson alone and unprotected, to find means as best I could to provide shelter and sustenance for his little baby boy, Clifford. In spite of myself, I laughed, forgetting all of the long months that we had waited for some sign of Swiftwater and an indication of his desire to do what was right by his own two little babies. “Coward,” I said, still laughing. “You know you deserve to be shot.” No answer from Swiftwater, whose body was completely covered up by bed clothes. Now, most men and most women will admire a MAN, but a cur and a coward are universally despised. As I looked at that huddled up mass of humanity underneath the white bedspread, my heart rose in rage. The contempt I felt for him is beyond all expression. “Come out of that, Bill,” said I. “I have no gun!”