he landed there?
To Randolph's astonishment, there was no sign or trace of any late
occupation of the wharf, and the ship whose crossyards he had seen dimly
through the darkness the night before was no longer there. She might
have "warped out" in the early morning, but there was no trace of her
in the stream or offing beyond. A bark and brig quite dismantled at an
adjacent wharf seemed to accent the loneliness. Beyond, the open channel
between him and Verba Buena Island was racing with white-maned seas and
sparkling in the shifting sunbeams. The scudding clouds above him drove
down the steel-blue sky. The lateen sails of the Italian fishing boats
were like shreds of cloud, too, blown over the blue and distant bay.
His ears sang, his eyes blinked, his pulses throbbed, with the untiring,
fierce activity of a San Francisco day.

With something of its restlessness he hurried back to the hotel. Still
the stranger was not there, and no one had called for him. The room had
been put in order; the portmanteau, that sole connecting link with his
last night's experience, was under the table. He drew it out again, and
again subjected it to a minute examination. A few toilet articles, not
of the best quality, which he had overlooked at first, the linen, the
buckskin purse, the memorandum book, and the suit of clothes he stood
in, still comprised all he knew of his benefactor. He counted the money
in the purse; it amounted, with the Bank of England notes, to about
seventy dollars, as he could roughly guess. There was a scrap of paper,
the torn-off margin of a newspaper, lying in the purse, with an address
hastily scribbled in pencil. It gave, however, no name, only a number:
"85 California Street." It might be a clue. He put it, with the purse,
carefully in his pocket, and after hurriedly partaking of his forgotten
breakfast, again started out.

He presently found himself in the main thoroughfare of last night, which
he now knew to be Montgomery Street. It was more thronged than then,
but he failed to be impressed, as then, with the selfish activity of
the crowd. Yet he was half conscious that his own brighter fortune,
more decent attire, and satisfied hunger had something to do with this
change, and he glanced hurriedly at the druggist's broad plate-glass
windows, with a faint hope that the young girl whose amused pity he had
awakened might be there again. He found California Street quickly, and
in a few moments he stood before No.