Francisco went directly to the office of The Bulletin, relating his experience to the veteran editor.  “I supposed as much,” said Pickering.  He tapped speculatively on the desk with his pencil.  “What’s more, I think there’s little to be done at present.  Printing the story of Platt’s Hall will only be construed as a bit of political recrimination.  San Francisco rather fancies gambling palaces.”

“Jack!” he called to a reporter.  “See if you can locate Jerry Lynch.”  He turned to Stanley.  “There’s the fellow for you:  Senator Jeremiah Lynch.  Know him?  Good.  You get evidence on Buckley.  Consult with Lynch concerning politics.  He’ll tell you ways to checkmate Chris you wouldn’t dream of....”

Pickering smiled and picked up a sheet of manuscript.  Francisco took the hint.  From that day he camped on Buckley’s trail.  Bit by bit he gathered proofs, some documentary, some testimonial.  No single item was of great importance.  But, as a whole, Robert had assured him, it was weaving a net in which the blind boss might one day find himself entrapped.  Perhaps he felt its meshes now and then.  For overtures were made to Stanley.  He was offered the position of secretary to Mayor Pond, but he declined it.  Word reached him of other opportunities; tips on the stock market, the races; he ignored them and went on.

* * * * *

One night his house was broken into and his desk ransacked most thoroughly.  Twice he was set upon at night, his pockets rifled.  Threats came to him of personal violence.  Finally the blind boss sent for him.

“Is there anything you want—­that I can give you?” Buckley minced no words.

Stanley shook his head.  Then, remembering Buckley’s blindness, he said “No.”

Buckley took a few short paces up and down the room, then added:  “I’ll talk plain to you, my friend—­because you’re smart; too smart to be a catspaw for an editor and a politician who hate me.  Let me tell you this, you’ll do no good by keeping on.”  He spun about suddenly, threateningly, “You’ve a wife, haven’t you?”

“We’ll not discuss that, Mr. Buckley,” said Francisco stiffly.

“Nevertheless it’s true ... and children?”

“N-not yet,” said Francisco in spite of himself.

“Oh, I see.  Well, that’s to be considered....  It’s not what you’d call a time for taking chances, brother.”

“What d’ye mean?” Francisco was a trifle startled.

“Nothing; nothing!” said the blind boss unctuously.  “Think it over....  And remember, I’m your friend.  If there’s anything you wish, come to me for it.  Otherwise—­”

Stanley looked at him inquiringly, but did not speak.  Nor did Buckley close his sentence.  It was left suspended like the Damoclesian blade.  Francisco went straight home and found Jeanne busied with her needle and some tiny garments, which of late had occupied her days.  He was rather silent while they dined, a bit uneasy.