begins to rise toward Telegraph Hill, with the city's made ground behind,
and in front "the gore" where Dr. Coggeswell's statue used to stand.
People who lived there were very loyal to it--not much style, but
comfort, quiet and independence.

Three days before the events in the last chapter a man entered its office
and asked for rooms. He was an impressive person, of the kind who usually
went to the Palace or the St. Francis. Ned Murphy, the clerk, sized him
up as an Easterner or maybe a foreigner. There was something
foreign-looking about him--you couldn't just tell what; it might be the
way he wore his hair, brushed back straight from his forehead, or an
undemocratic haughtiness of bearing. He looked as if he was used to the
best, and he acted that way; had to be shown four suites before he was
satisfied and then took the most expensive, second floor front, two rooms
and bath, and you could see he didn't think much of it. Ned Murphy lived
up to him with an unbroken spirit, languidly whistled as he slid the
register across the counter, looked up the hall with a bored air, and
then winked at the bell boy holding the bags. But when the stranger had
followed the boy up the stairs--the Argonaut had no elevator--he pulled
the register round and eagerly read the entry--"Boye Mayer, New York." A
foreign name all right; you couldn't fool him.

He told the switchboard girl, who had been taking it all in from her
desk, and she slid over to size up the signature. She thought he mightn't
be foreign--just happened to have that sort of name--he didn't talk with
any dialect. When the bell boy came back they questioned him, but he was
grouchy--feller'd only given him a dime. And say, one of them suit cases
was all battered and wore out, looked like the kind the hayseeds have
when they come up from the country.