Ned McGowan, it was rumored, had gone into hiding.  Broderick kept to himself and took no sides, yet.  Many sought him for support and for advice, but he repulsed them tactfully, remaining in his room to read; walking silently about at twilight.  He had a way of standing on a hilltop, losing count of minutes, even hours.  Thus Adrian surprised him one evening gazing down on San Francisco’s winking street lamps as the night came down.

“Hello, Dave,” he said, “why so pensive?”

Quietly as he spoke the other started.  “I was wondering about tomorrow....”

“Why tomorrow?”

Broderick looked around to satisfy himself that there was no one else to hear.  “Coleman will withdraw his Vigilante guard from the jail on Sunday morning....  Oh, yes,” he added, as the other seemed surprised, “I have my agents in the Committee’s camp.  Not to harm them.  I don’t hold with spies and treachery....  But I have to keep informed.”

Adrian looked at his friend, astonished.  This was news to him.  Broderick went on:  “The Governor’s indirectly forced their hand.  Coleman knows that violent forces are at work to overthrow his Vigilantes; that the Governor’s aiding them.  So he’s decided to strike.”

“Tomorrow, eh!” said Adrian thoughtfully.  “That means bloodshed, probably.”

Broderick turned a gloomy countenance toward him.  “I don’t know,” he answered, and resumed his gazing.  Adrian went on.  He looked back after he had gone a hundred yards.  The other man remained there, immobile and silent as a statue.

Governor J. Neely Johnson paced up and down the confines of his suite at the International Hotel.  In a chair sprawled Mayor Van Ness, his fingers opening and shutting spasmodically upon the leather upholstery.  Volney Howard leaned in a swaggering posture against the mantelpiece, smoking a big cigar and turning at intervals to expectorate out of one corner of his mouth.

“Well,” said Howard, “the President’s turned us down.  We get no Federal aid, I understand.  What next?”

Johnson stopped his pacing.  “I fancy Coleman will have to answer that question.  Our cue is to wait.”

“’He also serves who stands and waits’,” quoted Howard sardonically.

There came a knock at the door.  Van Ness, arising quickly, answered it.  A uniformed page stood on the threshold bearing a silver platter on which reposed two letters.  Something about the incident again aroused Howard’s sense of humor.  “Like a play,” he muttered. “’My Lord, the carriage waits.’”

With an exclamation of annoyance the Governor stepped forward, took the two envelopes, displacing them with a bit of silver, and dismissed the boy.  He opened both missives before examining either.  Then he stood for a moment, a rectangle of paper in either hand, frowning.

Van Ness, peering over the Governor’s shoulder, read: 

We have given up hope for Mr. King’s recovery.  His death is a matter of days, perhaps hours.