Somewhere I had a confused and misty remembrance of having heard the name, yet it meant nothing to me.  “Flush of Gold,” I repeated; “sounds like the name of a dance-house girl.”  Lon shook his head.  “No, she was a good woman, at least in that sense, though she sinned greatly just the same.”

“But why do you speak always of her in the past tense, as though she were dead?”

“Because of the darkness on her soul that is the same as the darkness of death.  The Flush of Gold that I knew, that Dawson knew, and that Forty Mile knew before that, is dead.  That dumb, lunatic creature we saw last night was not Flush of Gold.”

“And Dave?” I queried.

“He built that cabin,” Lon answered, “He built it for her . . . and for himself.  He is dead.  She is waiting for him there.  She half believes he is not dead.  But who can know the whim of a crazed mind?  Maybe she wholly believes he is not dead.  At any rate, she waits for him there in the cabin he built.  Who would rouse the dead?  Then who would rouse the living that are dead?  Not I, and that is why I let on to expect to meet Dave Walsh there last night.  I’ll bet a stack that I’d a been more surprised than she if I had met him there last night.”

“I do not understand,” I said.  “Begin at the beginning, as a white man should, and tell me the whole tale.”

And Lon began.  “Victor Chauvet was an old Frenchman—­born in the south of France.  He came to California in the days of gold.  He was a pioneer.  He found no gold, but, instead, became a maker of bottled sunshine—­in short, a grape-grower and wine-maker.  Also, he followed gold excitements.  That is what brought him to Alaska in the early days, and over the Chilcoot and down the Yukon long before the Carmack strike.  The old town site of Ten Mile was Chauvet’s.  He carried the first mail into Arctic City.  He staked those coal-mines on the Porcupine a dozen years ago.  He grubstaked Loftus into the Nippennuck Country.  Now it happened that Victor Chauvet was a good Catholic, loving two things in this world, wine and woman.  Wine of all kinds he loved, but of woman, only one, and she was the mother of Marie Chauvet.”

Here I groaned aloud, having meditated beyond self-control over the fact that I paid this man two hundred and fifty dollars a month.

“What’s the matter now?” he demanded.

“Matter?” I complained.  “I thought you were telling the story of Flush of Gold.  I don’t want a biography of your old French wine-bibber.”

Lon calmly lighted his pipe, took one good puff, then put the pipe aside.  “And you asked me to begin at the beginning,” he said.

“Yes,” said I; “the beginning.”

“And the beginning of Flush of Gold is the old French wine-bibber, for he was the father of Marie Chauvet, and Marie Chauvet was the Flush of Gold.  What more do you want?  Victor Chauvet never had much luck to speak of.  He managed to live, and to get along, and to take good care of Marie, who resembled the one woman he had loved.  He took very good care of her.  Flush of Gold was the pet name he gave her.  Flush of Gold Creek was named after her—­Flush of Gold town site, too.  The old man was great on town sites, only he never landed them.