“And what’s the Workingmen’s Trade and Labor Union doing?” Robert asked.

“Oh, muttering and threatening as usual,” Francisco laughed.  “They’ll not do anything—­with the memory of Coleman’s 1500 pick-handles fresh in their minds....”

“Well, I’m glad those murderous ruffians are behind the bars,” said Alice.  But Francisco took her up.  “That’s rather hard on them, Aunt Alice,” he retorted.  “They’re only a social reaction of the times ... when railroad millionaires have our Legislature by the throat and land barons refuse to divide their great holdings and give the small farmer a chance....  Kearney, aside from his rant of violence, which he doesn’t mean, is advocating much-needed reforms....  I was talking with Henry George today....”

“He’s the new city gas and water inspector, isn’t he?” asked Benito.  “They tell me he’s writing a book.”

“Yes, ‘Progress and Poverty.’  George believes the single tax will cure all social wrongs.  But Jean....”  He hesitated, flushing.

“Jean?” His aunt was quick to sense a mystery.  “Who is Jean?”

“Oh, she’s the new woman reporter,” said Francisco hastily.  He rose, “Well, I’ll be going now.”

His aunt looked after him in silent speculation.  “So!” she spoke half to herself.  “Jean’s the woman reporter.”  And for some occult reason she smiled.

* * * * *

Robert saw them together some days later, talking very earnestly as they walked through “Pauper Alley.”  Such was the title bestowed upon Leidesdorff street between California and Pine streets, where the “mudhens”—­those bedraggled, wretched women speculators who still waited hungrily for scanty crumbs from Fortune’s table—­chatted with broken-down and shabby men in endless reminiscent gabble of great fortunes they had “almost won.”

“Miss Norwall’s going to do some ‘human interest sketches,’ as they call ’em,” Francisco explained as he introduced his cousin.  “Our editor believes in a ‘literary touch’ for the paper.  Something rather new.”

Jean Norwall held out her hand.  She was an attractive, bright-eyed girl in her early twenties, with a searching, friendly look, as though life were full of surprises which she was eager to probe.  “So you are Robert,” she remarked.  “Francisco’s talked a lot about you.”

“That was good of him,” the young man answered.  “He’s talked a deal of you as well, Miss Norwall.”

“Oh, indeed!"’ She reddened slightly.  “Well, we must be getting on.”

Robert raised his hat and watched them disappear around the corner.  There was a vaguely lonesome feeling somewhere in the region of his heart.  He went on past the entrance of the San Francisco Stock Exchange and almost collided with a bent-over, shrewd-faced man, whose eagle-beak and penetrating eyes were a familiar sight along California street.

He was E.J. (better known as “Lucky”) Baldwin, who had started the Pacific Stock Exchange.