Then a week passed.  He wrote again, and still no reply.  Then a vague feeling of jealousy took possession of him as he remembered her warning hint of the attentions to which she was subjected, and he became singularly appreciative of Snapshot Harry’s proficiency as a marksman.  Then, cruelest of all, for your impassioned lover is no lover at all if not cruel in his imaginings, he remembered how she had evaded her uncle’s espionage with him; could she not equally with another?  Perhaps that was why she had hurried him away,—­why she had prevented his returning to her uncle.  Following this came another week of disappointment and equally miserable cynical philosophy, in which he persuaded himself he was perfectly satisfied with his material advancement, that it was the only outcome of his adventure to be recognized; and he was more miserable than ever.

A month had passed, when one morning he received a small package by post.  The address was in a handwriting unknown to him, but opening the parcel he was surprised to find only a handkerchief neatly folded.  Examining it closely, he found it was his own,—­the one he had given her, the rent made by her uncle’s bullet so ingeniously and delicately mended as to almost simulate embroidery.  The joy that suddenly filled him at this proof of her remembrance showed him too plainly how hollow had been his cynicism and how lasting his hope!  Turning over the wrapper eagerly, he discovered what he had at first thought was some business card.  It was, indeed, printed and not engraved, in some common newspaper type, and bore the address, “Hiram Tarbox, Land and Timber Agent, 1101 California Street.”  He again examined the parcel; there was nothing else,—­not a line from her!  But it was a clue at last, and she had not forgotten him!  He seized his hat, and ten minutes later was breasting the steep sand hill into which California Street in those days plunged, and again emerged at its crest, with a few struggling houses.

But when he reached the summit he could see that the outline of the street was still plainly marked along the distance by cottages and new suburban villa-like blocks of houses.  No. 1101 was in one of these blocks, a small tenement enough, but a palace compared to Mr. Tarbox’s Sierran cabin.  He impetuously rang the bell, and without waiting to be announced dashed into the little drawing-room and Mr. Tarbox’s presence.  That had changed too; Mr. Tarbox was arrayed in a suit of clothes as new, as cheaply decorative, as fresh and, apparently, as damp as his own drawing room.

“Did you get my letter?  Did you give her the one I inclosed?  Why didn’t you answer?” burst out Brice, after his first breathless greeting.

Mr. Tarbox’s face here changed so suddenly into his old dejected doggedness that Brice could have imagined himself back in the Sierran cabin.  The man straightened and bowed himself at Brice’s questions, and then replied with bold, deliberate emphasis: