I was by no means sure that Harry had come to Denver. He was
traveling with a bundle of animated caprice, a creature who would
have hauled him off the train at Rahway, New Jersey, if she had
happened to take a fancy to the place. At the moment, I
reflected, they might be driving along Michigan Boulevard, or
attending a matinee at the Willis Wood, or sipping mint juleps at
the Planters'.

Even if they were in Denver, how was I to find them? I keenly
regretted the week I had lost. I was sure that Harry would avoid
any chance of publicity and would probably shun the big hotels.
And Denver is not a village.

It was the beauty of Le Mire that saved me. Indeed, I might have
foreseen that; and I have but poorly portrayed the force of her
unmatchable fascination unless you have realized that she was a
woman who could pass nowhere without being seen; and, seen,
remembered.

I made inquiries of the manager of the hotel, of course, but was
brought up sharply when he asked me the names of my friends for
whom I was asking. I got out of it somehow, some foolish evasion
or other, and regarded my task as more difficult than ever.

That same evening I dined at the home of my cousin, Hovey
Stafford, who had come West some years before on account of weak
lungs, and stayed because he liked it. I met his wife that
evening for the first time; she may be introduced with the
observation that if she was his reason for remaining in the
provinces, never did man have a better one.