I heard the shrill voices of the urchins from my window in the hotel and I said:
“Bera, what have you done—had him arrested?”
I rang the bell and told the bell-boy to bring up a copy of The Times. Sure enough, there was the whole story of a warrant issued for Swiftwater Bill on the charge of bigamy and a long yarn about his various escapes in Alaska, including a recital of how he ruined the life of young Kitty Gates, his niece, by eloping with her and marrying her while he was still the lawful husband of Bera.
Just about dusk—I think it must have been at 8 o’clock that evening—there came a knock at the door. I went to answer it, and there in the hall of the hotel stood a man who was an absolute stranger to me.
“Mrs. Beebe?”
“This is Mrs. Beebe.”
“Swiftwater wants to see you. I am Jack Watson, who used to be with him in the north.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you where he is, Mrs. Beebe,” said the man, “but if you will go with me I can find him.”
Five minutes later we were on First Avenue, which was crowded with thousands of sightseers, it being Saturday night, and everybody seemed to be out for a good time. Watson led me up Spring Street to the alley between First and Second Avenues and then went down the alley till, reaching the shadow of a tall building, he said: