Her tone, despite agitation, was that of extreme youth.  She was not of the class that frequent gambling halls.  Both her dress and her manner proclaimed that.  Adrian was perplexed.  “Are you—­” he hesitated, fearing to impart offense, “are you the girl who came with McTurpin?”

“Yes, yes,” she spoke hurriedly.  “He told me my father was ill.  He promised to take me to him.  Instead, he locked me in this room.  He threatened—­oh! he is a monster!  Will you help me?  Do you know my father, sir?”

“What is his name?” asked Stanley.

“Burthen, sir, James Burthen,” she replied, and fell once more to sobbing helplessly.  “Oh, if I were only out of here.”

Stanley pressed his weight against the door.  He was thinking rapidly.  So this was the daughter of Benito’s partner—­the murdered miner of the Eldorado tragedy.  He recalled the letter from Colton; the hint of McTurpin’s infatuation and its menace.  Things became clear to him suddenly.  The door gave as he pressed his knee against it.  Presently the flimsy lock capitulated and he walked into the room.  The girl shrank back against the farther wall at his approach.

“Oh, come,” he said, a trifle testily, “I’m not going to hurt you.  Get on your hat.  I’ll see you’re taken care of.  I’ll place you in charge of my wife.”

“And my father,” she begged.  “You’ll take me to him?”

“Yes, yes, your father,” he agreed in haste.  “But first you’ll come home with me.”

She snatched up a hat and shawl from the commode, and, with hurried movements rearranged her hair; then she followed him submissively into the gathering dusk, shrinking close as if to efface herself whenever they passed anyone.  The streets were full of men now, mostly bound from hotels, lodging houses and tents to the Eldorado and kindred resorts.  Many of them ogled her curiously, for a female figure was a rarity in nocturnal San Francisco.

They passed dimly lighted tents in which dark figures bulked grotesquely against canvas walls.  In one a man seemed to be dancing with a large animal which Stanley told her was a grizzly bear.

“They have many queer pets,” he said.  “One of my neighbors keeps a pet coon, and in another tent there are a bay horse, two dogs, two sheep and a pair of goats.  They sleep with their master like a happy family.”

“It is all so strange,” said the girl, faintly.  “In the East my father was a lawyer; we had a good house and a carriage; everything was so different from—­this.  But after my mother died, he grew restless.  He sold everything and came to this rough, wild country.  None of his old friends would know him now, with his beard, his boots and the horrible red flannel shirt.”

Adrian made no reply.  He was thinking of the tragic news which must ere long be told to Burthen’s daughter.  For a time they strode along in silence—­until Stanley paused before an open door.  Against the inner light which streamed through it into the darkness of the street a woman’s figure was outlined.