Pierce turned to discover that a girl was leaning with elbows upon the plank counter at his side and looking at him. Her chin was supported upon her clasped fingers; she was staring into his face. She eyed him silently for a moment, during which he returned her unsmiling gaze. She dropped her eyes to the whisky-glass, then raised them again to his. "Can you take a drink like that and not feel it?" she inquired. "No. I want to feel it; that's why I take it," he said, gruffly. "What's the idea?" "Idea? Well, it's my own idea--my own business." The girl took no offense; she maintained her curious observation of him; she appeared genuinely interested in acquainting herself with a man who could master such a phenomenal quantity of liquor. There was mystification in her tone when she said: "But--I saw you come in alone. And now you're drinking alone." "Is that a reproach? I beg your pardon." Pierce swept her a mocking bow. "What will you have?" Without removing her chin from its resting-place, the stranger shook her head shortly, so he downed his beverage as before. The girl watched him interestedly as he paid for it. "That's more money than I've seen in a month," said she. "I wouldn't be so free and easy with it, if I were you." "No? Why not?" She merely shrugged, and continued to study him with that same disconcerting intentness--she reminded him of a frank and curious child. Pierce noticed now that she was a very pretty girl, and quite appropriately dressed, under the circumstances. She wore a boy's suit, with a short skirt over her knickerbockers, and, since she was slim, the garments added to her appearance of immaturity. Her face was oval in outline, and it was of a perfectly uniform olive tint; her eyes were large and black and velvety, their lashes were long, their lids were faintly smudged with a shadowy under-coloring that magnified their size and intensified their brilliance. Her hair was almost black, nevertheless it was of fine texture; a few unruly strands had escaped from beneath her fur cap and they clouded her brow and temples. At first sight she appeared to be foreign, and of that smoky type commonly associated with the Russian idea of beauty, but she was not foreign, not Russian; nor were her features predominantly racial. "What's your name?" she asked, suddenly. Pierce told her. "And yours?" he inquired. "Laure." "Laure what?" "Just Laure--for the present." "Humph! You're one of this--theatrical company, I presume." He indicated the singers across the room. "Yes. Morris Best hired us to work in his place at Dawson." "I remember your outfit at Sheep Camp. Best was nearly crazy--" "He's crazier now than ever." Laure smiled for the first time and her face lit up with mischief. "Poor Morris! We lead him around by his big nose. He's deathly afraid he'll lose us, and we know it, so we make his life miserable." She turned serious abruptly, and with a candor quite startling said, "I like you."