She registered, was assigned a room, and ate luncheon to the melancholy
accompaniment of a three-man orchestra struggling vainly with Bach in an
alcove off the dining room. After that she began to make inquiries.
Neither clerk nor manager knew aught of Charlie Benton. They were both
in their first season there. They advised her to ask the storekeeper.
"MacDougal will know," they were agreed. "He knows everybody around
here, and everything that goes on."
The storekeeper, a genial, round-bodied Scotchman, had the information
she desired.
"Charlie Benton?" said he. "No, he'll be at his camp up the lake. He was
in three or four days back. I mind now, he said he'd be down Thursday;
that's to-day. But he isn't here yet, or his boat'd be by the wharf
yonder."
"Are there any passenger boats that call there?" she asked.
MacDougal shook his head.
"Not reg'lar. There's a gas boat goes t' the head of the lake now an'
then. She's away now. Ye might hire a launch. Jack Fyfe's camp tender's
about to get under way. But ye wouldna care to go on her, I'm thinkin'.
She'll be loaded wi' lumberjacks--every man drunk as a lord, most like.
Maybe Benton'll be in before night."
She went back to the hotel. But St. Allwoods, in its dual capacity of
health-and-pleasure resort, was a gilded shell, making a brave outward
show, but capitalizing chiefly lake, mountains, and hot, mineral
springs. Her room was a bare, cheerless place. She did not want to sit
and ponder.
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