With an uneasy sense of some impending revelation, Christie descended to the drawing-room.  As she opened the door, a strong flavor of that toilet soap and eau de Cologne with which Whiskey Dick was in the habit of gracefully effacing the traces of dissipation made known his presence.  In spite of a new suit of clothes, whose pristine folds refused to adapt themselves entirely to the contour of his figure, he was somewhat subdued by the unexpected elegance of the drawing-room of Christie’s host.  But a glance at Christie’s sad but gracious face quickly reassured him.  Taking from his hat a three-cornered parcel, he unfolded a handsome saffrona rose, which he gravely presented to her.  Having thus reestablished his position, he sank elegantly into a tete-a-tete ottoman.  Finding the position inconvenient to face Christie, who had seated herself on a chair, he transferred himself to the other side of the ottoman, and addressed her over its back as from a pulpit.

“Is this really a fortunate accident, Mr. Hall, or did you try to find us?” said Christie pleasantly.

“Partly promiskuss, and partly coincident, Miss Christie, one up and t’other down,” said Dick lightly.  “Work being slack at present at Devil’s Ford, I reck’ned I’d take a pasear down to ’Frisco, and dip into the vortex o’ fash’nable society and out again.”  He lightly waved a new handkerchief to illustrate his swallow-like intrusion.  “This yer minglin’ with the bo-tong is apt to be wearisome, ez you and me knows, unless combined with experience and judgment.  So when them boys up there allows that there’s a little too much fash’nable society and San Francisco capital and high-falutin’ about the future goin’ on fer square surface mining, I sez, ‘Look yere, gentlemen,’ sez I, ’you don’t see the pint.  The pint is to get the pop’lar eye fixed, so to speak, on Devil’s Ford.  When a fash’nable star rises above the ’Frisco horizon—­like Miss Carr—­and, so to speak, dazzles the gineral eye, people want to know who she is.  And when people say that’s the accomplished daughter o’ the accomplished superintendent of the Devil’s Ford claim—­otherwise known as the Star-eyed Goddess o’ Devil’s Ford—­every eye is fixed on the mine, and Capital, so to speak, tumbles to her.’  And when they sez that the old man—­excuse my freedom, but that’s the way the boys talk of your father, meaning no harm—­the old man, instead o’ trying to corral rich widders—­grass or otherwise—­to spend their money on the big works for the gold that ain’t there yet—­should stay in Devil’s Ford and put all his sabe and genius into grindin’ out the little gold that is there, I sez to them that it ain’t your father’s style.  ‘His style,’ sez I, ’ez to go in and build them works.’  When they’re done he turns round to Capital, and sez he—­’Look yer,’ sez he, ’thar’s all the works you want, first quality—­cost a million; thar’s all the water you want, onlimited—­cost another million; thar’s all the pay gravel you