"
In the middle of the third week, at nine o'clock in the evening, when the
lamps in P. Gibbs's saloon were exerting their smallest degree of dimness
and the bar was doing a good business, the door opened and in staggered
Busted Blake. His staggering on this occasion was manifestly not due to
drink. His face had the hideous concavities of a starved man and the
uncertainty of his gait was the token of a mortal feebleness. His
emaciation was painful to behold. His eyes glowed like huge gems.
The crowd of miners looked at him with surprise as he entered.
"The coughing stranger!" cried one.
"The coffin stranger, you mean," said another.
Busted Blake lurched over to the bar. His eyes met those of P. Gibbs on the
other side, and the latter reached for a whiskey-bottle.
Blake fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a piece of soiled paper,
which he laid on the bar under the glance of P. Gibbs.
"Keep that!" said Blake, in a husky voice, whose service he compelled with
much effort. "And keep your word, too! That's where you'll find her."
P. Gibbs picked up the paper.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
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