The evident object of the correction was to direct the public attention from Sacramento Street to Saucelito, as the probable whereabouts of this “Jimmy Bodine.”  The street below was Sacramento Street, the “friendly doorway” might have been their own.

That she had some knowledge of this Bodine was not more improbable than the ballet story.  Her strange absences, the mystery surrounding her, all seemed to testify that she had some connection—­perhaps only an innocent one—­with these desperate people whom the Vigilance Committee were hunting down.  Her attempt to save the man was, after all, no more illegal than their attempt to capture him.  True, she might have trusted him, Breeze, without this tampering with his papers; yet perhaps she thought he was certain to discover it—­and it was only a silent appeal to his mercy.  The corrections were ingenious and natural—­it was the act of an intelligent, quick-witted woman.

Mr. Breeze was prompt in acting upon his intuition, whether right or wrong.  He took up his pen, wrote on the margin of the proof, “Print as corrected,” said to the boy carelessly, “The corrections are all right,” and dismissed him quickly.

The corrected paragraph which appeared in the “Informer” the next morning seemed to attract little public attention, the greater excitement being the suicide of the imprisoned bully and the effect it might have upon the prosecution of other suspected parties, against whom the dead man had been expected to bear witness.

Mr. Breeze was unable to obtain any information regarding the desperado Bodine’s associates and relations; his correction of the paragraph had made the other members of the staff believe he had secret and superior information regarding the fugitive, and he thus was estopped from asking questions.  But he felt himself justified now in demanding fuller information from Roberts at the earliest opportunity.

For this purpose he came home earlier that night, hoping to find the night watchman still on his first beat in the lower halls.  But he was disappointed.  He was amazed, however, on reaching his own landing, to find the passage piled with new luggage, some of that ruder type of rolled blanket and knapsack known as a “miner’s kit.”  He was still more surprised to hear men’s voices and the sound of laughter proceeding from the room that was always locked.  A sudden sense of uneasiness and disgust, he knew not why, came over him.

He passed quickly into his room, shut the door sharply, and lit the gas.  But he presently heard the door of the locked room open, a man’s voice, slightly elevated by liquor and opposition, saying, “I know what’s due from one gen’leman to ’nother”—­a querulous, objecting voice saying, “Hole on! not now,” and a fainter feminine protest, all of which were followed by a rap on his door.

Breeze opened it to two strangers, one of whom lurched forward unsteadily with outstretched hand.  He had a handsome face and figure, and a certain consciousness of it even in the abandon of liquor; he had an aggressive treacherousness of eye which his potations had not subdued.  He grasped Breeze’s hand tightly, but dropped it the next moment perfunctorily as he glanced round the room.