“Good-bye, Bessie. I am going away from this place. I hope I shall see you again. You and your father travel about, and you’re quite likely to come to some camp where I am. Good-bye! Remember me to your father, Mr. Silvius.”
Before the girl could reply, Bob Gordon—or Howard Milmarsh, which, of course, was his real name—had dashed away into the darkness.
Bessie Silvius made her way slowly to the back of the stage.
It was not until the girl and Bob Gordon had both gone that a man came out from behind a large bush where he had been crouching, listening to the conversation. He was in evening dress, but his shirt front was crumpled and bore stains from the bush, while his whole suit looked as if it needed pressing.
The man was none other than the monologuist who had been hailed by his noisy admirers as “old Joe Stokes.”
He had taken himself off when the row started, because he did not care to be in a battle if it could be helped. Moreover, he had seen the girl following Bob Gordon into the darkness, and he had curiosity to see what there might be between them—if anything. Joe Stokes had a sort of liking for Bessie Silvius himself.
“Well, if this isn’t luck!” was Joe Stokes’ self-addressed remark, as he found himself alone, and ventured to stand up and stretch. “I’ve always had my suspicions about that Bob Gordon. He never seemed to me to be like the other lumbermen. I’ve lived in cities too long, and mixed too much with classy people, not to know a man who has been a gentleman, no matter what kind of clothes he wears. And now this turns out to be—I’ll get into the hotel. I’ll have to work quickly if I’m going to make anything of all this.”
It was easy for him to get to the hotel without being seen by the audience in the garden. They were some distance away from the house, and were at the back of it, besides.
Joe Stokes went around to the front of the long, rambling frame structure, and soon was in his own small bedroom on the third-story.