the rude stairs to her room
where Timmons paused at the door.

"Well, I'm glad you're here," he said, moving away. "We've been
waitin' for you to show. I may be wrong, ma'am, but I'd bet my belt
that you're the lady that's been expected by Ned Beaton."

"You're mistaken," she replied shortly.

As she heard him clatter down the stairs, Miss Stella Donovan of the
New York _Star_ knew that her visit would not be in vain.

CHAPTER VIII: A GANG OF ENEMIES

The miner waited, leaning against the desk. His eyes had followed the
slender figure moving after the rotund Timmons up the uncarpeted stairs
until it had vanished amid the shadows of the second story. He smiled
quietly in imagination of her first astonished view of the interior of
room eighteen, and recalled to mind a vivid picture of its
adornments--the bare wood walls, the springless bed, the crack-nosed
pitcher standing disconsolate in a blue wash-basin of tin; the little
round mirror in a once-gilt frame with a bullet-hole through its
centre, and the strip of dingy rag-carpet on the floor--all this
suddenly displayed by the yellowish flame of a small hand-lamp left
sitting on the window ledge.

Timmons came down the stairs, and bustled in back of the desk, eager to
ask questions.

"Lady a friend o' yours, Jim?" he asked. "If I'd a knowed she wus
comin' I'd a saved a better room."

"I have never seen her until to-night, Pete. She got off the train,
and Carson asked me to escort her up-town--it was dark, you know. How
did she like the palatial apartment?"

"Well, she didn't say nothin'; just sorter looked around. I reckon
she's a good sport, all right. What do ye suppose she's come yere for?"

"Not the slightest idea; I take it that's her business."

"Sure; but a feller can't help wonderin', can he? Donovan," he mused,
peering at the name; "that's Irish, I take it--hey?"

"Suspiciously so; you are some detective, Pete. I'll give you another
clue--her eyes are Irish grey."

He sauntered across to the stove, and stood looking idly at the
card-players, blue wreaths of tobacco smoke circling up from the bowl
of his pipe. Some one opened the street door, letting in a babel of
noise, and walked heavily across the office floor. Westcott turned
about to observe the newcomer. He was a burly, red-faced man, who had
evidently been drinking heavily, yet was not greatly under the
influence of liquor, dressed in a checked suit of good cut and fash