The redwoods were dripping with mist, itself as motionless as the silent trees it shrouded. It filled every hollow, was banked in every aisle, lay like silver cobweb on the young redwoods and ferns. It emphasized the ghastly silence. Not a bird was awake, not a crawling thing moved. Once a panther cried far up on the mountain, but that was all.
Clive came upon the hotel an hour later, a long rough wooden structure at the foot of the mountain, up which straggled many cottages. Hard by, across a little creek, were a saloon and billiard room. As he ascended the steps, a stout man with a red heavy face, came out of the office, stretching himself.
“You’re Mr. Clive, the Gordons’ friend, I surmise,” he said.
“I hope they haven’t sat up for me.” He devoutly hoped they had not.
“They hain’t. Miss Gordon waited till twelve, then concluded you’d fallen in with the Bohemian Club, as she knowed you’d brought a letter to Rollins. Jedging by the looks of you I should say you had. Come over to the bar and taper off. My name’s Hart and I run this hotel.”
“Thank you,” said Clive grimly, “but I’ll have no more to-night. Be good enough to show me to my room, and be sure to have me wakened at eight. I suppose Mr. and Miss Gordon are not up before then. If they are, please give them my compliments and tell them that I did fall in with the Bohemian Club.”
CHAPTER III.
When Clive awoke and looked at his watch it was a quarter to three in the afternoon. He sprang out of bed in dismay. He was an ideal lover! If Mary Gordon sent him about his business he could not question the justice of the act. After a hurried tub and toilet he went in search of his landlord.
“Why in thunder didn’t you call me at eight?” he asked savagely.
“Miss Gordon was up at seven, mister, and she gave strict orders that you was not to be disturbed. I’m to take you over to her cottage the minute you show up and to send a broiled chicken after you.”