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It was opened at once by someone very different from what he had expected.

It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful.

She was of the German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of a pair of beautiful dark eyes with which she surveyed the stranger with surprise and a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave of colour over her pale face.

Framed in the bright light of the open doorway, it seemed to McMurdo that he had never seen a more beautiful picture; the more attractive for its contrast with the sordid and gloomy surroundings.

A lovely violet growing upon one of those black slag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed more surprising.

So entranced was he that he stood staring without a word, and it was she who broke the silence.

"I thought it was father," said she with a pleasing little touch of a German accent. "Did you come to see him? He is down town. I expect him back every minute."

McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyes dropped in confusion before this masterful visitor.

"No, miss," he said at last, "I'm in no hurry to see him. But your house was recommended to me for board. I thought it might suit me-and now I know it will."

"You are quick to make up your mind," said she with a smile.

"Anyone but a blind man could do as much," the other answered.

She laughed at the compliment. "Come right in, sir," she said. "I'm Miss Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter's daughter. My mother's dead, and I run the house. You can sit down by the stove in the front room until father comes along-Ah, here he is! So you can fix things with him right away."

A heavy, elderly man came plodding up the path.

In a few words McMurdo explained his business.

A man of the name of Murphy had given him the address in Chicago.

He in turn had had it from someone else.

Old Shafter was quite ready.

The stranger made no bones about terms, agreed at once to every condition, and was apparently fairly flush of money.

For seven dollars a week paid in advance he was to have board and lodging.

So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed fugitive from justice, took up his abode under the roof of the Shafters, the first step which was to lead to so long and dark a train of events, ending in a far distant land.

McMurdo was a man who made his mark quickly.

Wherever he was the folk around soon knew it.

Within a week he had become infinitely the most important person at Shafter's.

There were ten or a dozen boarders there; but they were honest foremen or commonplace clerks from the stores, of a very different calibre from the young Irishman.

Chapter 2. The Bodymaster

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