"Ah, sir," said someone, and Wyeth came back to the present, to look down upon and old, white-haired woman, who was standing, observing him from the doorway. He bowed apologetically, got down, and went toward her.
"I have charge of the building," said she, speaking in a little strained voice. "Would you not like to view the interior?"
"I should like to, I am sure," he replied.
He followed her back to the door through which he had entered, and up a flight of winding, iron stairs to the next floor. Even these, he saw, had once been most magnificent. His guide offered no comment, but caught her breath in gasps as she ascended. When the landing had been reached, both paused for breath, while Wyeth's attention was immediately caught by the decaying grandeur, that was evident all about him. "Wonderful," he said at last, in a low, respectful voice, and as though he feared to disturb some of those grand persons that once had frequented it.
"Wonderful, you say?" echoed the woman, and regarded him out of small, sharp eyes.
"Magnificent."
"And, be you a stranger in the city?" she now asked.
"Yes."
"And from where do you come?"
"The great northwest. Dakota."