As they approached the centre of the town the scene was brightened by a row of well-lit stores, and even more by a cluster of saloons and gaming houses, in which the miners spent their hard-earned but generous wages.

“That’s the Union House,” said the guide, pointing to one saloon which rose almost to the dignity of being a hotel. “Jack McGinty is the boss there.”

“What sort of a man is he?” McMurdo asked.

“What! have you never heard of the boss?”

“How could I have heard of him when you know that I am a stranger in these parts?”

“Well, I thought his name was known clear across the country. It’s been in the papers often enough.”

“What for?”

“Well,” the miner lowered his voice—“over the affairs.”

“What affairs?”

“Good Lord, mister! you are queer, if I must say it without offense. There’s only one set of affairs that you’ll hear of in these parts, and that’s the affairs of the Scowrers.”

“Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers in Chicago. A gang of murderers, are they not?”

“Hush, on your life!” cried the miner, standing still in alarm, and gazing in amazement at his companion. “Man, you won’t live long in these parts if you speak in the open street like that. Many a man has had the life beaten out of him for less.”

“Well, I know nothing about them. It’s only what I have read.”

“And I’m not saying that you have not read the truth.” The man looked nervously round him as he spoke, peering into the shadows as if he feared to see some lurking danger. “If killing is murder, then God knows there is murder and to spare. But don’t you dare to breathe the name of Jack McGinty in connection with it, stranger; for every whisper goes back to him, and he is not one that is likely to let it pass. Now, that’s the house you’re after, that one standing back from the street. You’ll find old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a man as lives in this township.”

“I thank you,” said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his new acquaintance he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the path which led to the dwelling house, at the door of which he gave a resounding knock.

It was opened at once by someone very different from what he had expected. It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful. She was of the German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of a pair of beautiful dark eyes with which she surveyed the stranger with surprise and a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave of colour over her pale face. Framed in the bright light of the open doorway, it seemed to McMurdo that he had never seen a more beautiful picture; the more attractive for its contrast with the sordid and gloomy surroundings. A lovely violet growing upon one of those black slag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed more surprising. So entranced was he that he stood staring without a word, and it was she who broke the silence.

“I thought it was father,” said she with a pleasing little touch of a German accent. “Did you come to see him? He is down town. I expect him back every minute.”

McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyes dropped in confusion before this masterful visitor.