"There’s two of a kind. I’m in a similar fix. I have no friends here—at least with whom I can dine. Suppose we double up?"
"What’s that?" I asked.
"Why, let us eat our Christmas dinner together and have a good time. Here’s my card and here’s a letter of credit on Mr. Pendergast, Wells Fargo’s agent, to show that I am not without visible means of support."
The card read, "Mr. George Barclay, Grass Valley."
"Why," I said, "you are from Grass Valley. How strange. I saw two people yesterday—a lady and her ‘child’—who claimed to have come from Grass Valley."
"Indeed," he asked; "what are they like?"
"The mother says she is a Russian princess. She calls herself Mme. Fabre and says she is a widow. She is very handsome and intelligent and"—I added with a shudder—"has the loveliest eyes—they bored me through and through."
My new friend faintly smiled and said, "I know them. By and bye, when we get better acquainted, I shall tell you all about them. Meantime, be on your guard."
After luncheon we walked along Government to Yates Street and then to the Colonist shack. And as I placed the key in the lock I saw the young lady who had submitted the poetry walking rapidly towards us. My companion flushed slightly and raising his hat, extended his hand, which the lady accepted with hesitation. They exchanged some words and then the lady addressing me asked, "Was my poem acceptable?"
"To tell you the truth, Miss—Miss—"