Then a church steeple came in sight, and he knew that he had reached home.

In a few moments he was clattering down the single narrow street that lost itself in a chaotic ruin of races, ditches, and tailings at the foot of the hill, and dismounted before the gilded windows of the "Magnolia" saloon.

Passing through the long barroom, he pushed open a green-baize door, entered a dark passage, opened another door with a passkey, and found himself in a dimly lighted room whose furniture, though elegant and costly for the locality, showed signs of abuse.

The inlaid center table was overlaid with stained disks that were not contemplated in the original design.
The embroidered armchairs were discolored, and the green velvet lounge, on which Mr.Hamlin threw himself, was soiled at the foot with the red soil of Wingdam.
Mr.Hamlin did not sing in his cage.

He lay still, looking at a highly colored painting above him representing a young creature of opulent charms.