“Well, Billy Mulligan will let him out,” responded Broderick.  “If not, see Scannell.  Do you need bail?” He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of banknotes.  “You’ll attend to it, Ned?” he asked hurriedly.

“Yes, yes,” returned the tall man.  “That’s all right....  I wish it hadn’t happened, though.  We’re none too strong ... with seven murderers in the jail....  They’ll bring up Casey’s prison record at the examination.  See if they don’t.”

Broderick turned away.

At the bar he greeted “General” Billy Richardson, deputy United States Marshal.  They had a drink together.

“James King of William’s crusading with The Bulletin,” said Richardson, “he threatens to run all the crooks out of town.  It’s making a good deal of talk.”

“But King’s not a newspaper man,” retorted Broderick, puzzled.  “He’s a banker.  How’s he going to run a journal?  That takes money—­experience.”

“Quien sabe?” Richardson vouchsafed.  “Sinton of Selover and Sinton’s his financial backer.  Jim Nesbitt helps with the writing.  You know Nesbitt, don’t you?  Slings a wicked pen.  But King writes his own editorials I’m told.  He’s got a big job on his hands—­cleaning up San Francisco....  You ought to know, Dave Broderick,” he laughed meaningly.  “Here’s to him, anyhow.”

“Don’t know if I should drink to that or not,” Broderick ruminated, smiling.  “May get after me.  I’ll take a chance, though.  King’s straight.  I can always get on with a straight man.”  He raised his glass.

A friend of Richardson’s came up.  Broderick did not know him, but he recognized at his side the well-groomed figure of Charles Cora, gambler and dandy.  “Wancha t’meet Charley,” said the introducer, unsteadily, to Richardson.  “Bes’ li’l man ever lived.”  Richardson held out his hand a bit reluctantly.  Cora’s sort were somewhat declasse.  “Have a drink?” he invited.

Broderick left them together.  Later he saw Richardson quit the gambler’s presence abruptly.  The other took a few steps after him, then fell back with a shrug.  Broderick heard the deputy-marshal mutter:  “Too damned fresh; positively insulting,” but he thought little of it.  Richardson was apt to grow choleric while drinking.  He often fancied himself insulted, but usually forgot it quickly.  So Broderick merely smiled.

On the following day he chanced again upon Richardson, who, to Broderick’s astonishment, still brooded over Cora’s “impudent remark.”  He did not seem to know just what it was, but the offensive flavor of it lingered.

“Wonder where he is?” he kept repeating.  “Deserves to be thrashed.  Confound his impertinence.  May do it yet.”

He was drinking.  Broderick glanced apprehensively about.  The gambler’s sleek form was not in evidence.  McGowan came in with Casey and Mulligan.  Casey, too, had been drinking.  He was in an evil humor, his usually jovial face sullen and vengeful.