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 fashion, but hardly in the best of taste.

His hat, a Stetson, was pushed back on his head, and an unlighted cigar was clinched tightly between his teeth.

He bore all the earmarks of a commercial traveller of a certain sort--a domineering personality, making up by sheer nerve what he might lack in brains.

But for his words the miner would have given the fellow no further thought.
"Say, Timmons," he burst forth noisily, and striding over to the desk, "the marshal tells me a dame blew in from New York to-night--is she registered here ?" The landlord shoved the book forward, with one finger on the last signature.
"Yep," he said shortly, "but she ain't the one you was lookin' for--I asked her that, furst thing." "Stella Donovan--huh! That's no name ever I heard; what's she look like ?" "Like a lady, I reckon; I ain't seen one fer quite a spell now." "Dark or light ?" "Waal, sorter medium, I should say; brown hair with a bit o' red in it, an' a pair o' grey eyes full of fun--some girl, to my notion." The questioner struck his fist on the wood sharply.
"Well, what the devil do you suppose such a woman has come to this hole clear from New York for, Timmons?
What's her game, anyhow ?" "Blessed if I know," and the proprietor seated himself on a high stool.
"I didn't ask no questions like that; maybe the gent by the stove there might give yer all the information yer want.