Heney was at the attorneys’ table talking animatedly with an assistant.  The jury had left the room and Gallagher stepped down from the stand to have a word with the prosecutor.  A few feet away was Heney’s bodyguard lolling, plainly bored by the testimony.  There was the usual buzz of talk which marks a lull in court proceedings.

Into this scene came with covert tread a wild, dramatic figure.  No one noted his approach.  Morris Haas, glittering of eye, dishevelled, mad with loss of sleep and brooding, had crept into the court-room unheeded.  He approached the attorneys’ table stealthily.

All at once Frank saw him standing within a foot of Heney.  Something glittered in his outstretched hand.  Frank shouted, but his warning lost itself in a wild cry of revengeful accusation.  There was a sharp report; smoke rose.  An acrid smell of exploded powder hung upon the air.  Heney, with a cry, fell backward.  Blood spurted from his neck.

* * * * *

Once more the city was afire with men’s passions.  Haas was rushed to the county jail and Heney to a hospital, where it was found, amid great popular rejoicing, that the wound was not a fatal one.  Had it been otherwise no human power could have protected Haas from lynching.

A great mass meeting was held.  Langdon, Phelan, Mayor Taylor pleaded for order.  “Let us see to it,” said the last, “that no matter who else breaks the law, we shall uphold it.”  This became the keynote of the meeting.  Rudolph Spreckels, who arrived late, was greeted with tumultuous cheering.

Frank and Aleta were impressed by the spontaneity of the huge popular turnout.  “It means,” said the girl, as they made their exit, “that San Francisco is again aroused to its danger.  What a great, good natured, easy-going body of men and women this town is!  We feed on novelty and are easily wearied.  That’s why so many have back-slid who were strong for the Prosecution at first.”

“Yes, you’re right,” answered Frank.  “We alternate between spasms of Virtue and comfortable inertias of Don’t-care-a-Damn!  That’s San Francisco!”

“The Good Gray City,” he added after a little silence.  “We love it in spite of its faults and upheavals, don’t we, Aleta?”

“Perhaps because of them.”  She squeezed his arm.  For a time they walked on without speaking.  “How is your settlement work progressing?” he asked at length.

But she did not answer, for a shrieking newsie thrust a paper in her hand.  “Buy an extra, lady,” he importuned her.  “All about Morris Haas’ suicide!”

She tossed him a coin and he rushed off, shrilling his tragic revelation.  Huge black headlines announced that Heney’s assailant had shot himself to death in his cell.

CHAPTER LXXXIX

DEFEAT OF THE PROSECUTION