"Mistake! I wish it were," cried Nesbitt angrily. "No, poor Billy Richardson is dead. Cora's in jail.... They say Cora laughed when he went to prison with Scannell.... Scannell and Mulligan!" He spat out the words with a savage distaste. "Let me show you something, Dave. A reporter from the New York _Express_ was out here gathering data--crime statistics for the year. He showed it to me. Listen to this: Four hundred and eighty-nine murders in California during ten months. Six executions by sheriffs, forty-six hanged by mobs; that makes fifty-two in all." He tapped the paper with his lean forefinger. "Probably two hundred of these killings were local.... And in the entire history of this city there's been exactly one legal execution. That was in 1852." Broderick shook his head. "What are you going to do with that stuff?" asked Broderick. "Publish it in the _Bulletin_," returned Nesbitt decisively. "We're going to stir things up." They walked along together, Broderick's head bent in thought. Everywhere people were discussing the evening's tragedy. More than once "Judge Lynch's" name was mentioned threateningly. About the jail men swarmed, coming and going in an excited human tide. Some brandished fists at the unresponsive brick walls or called threats against Cora. As Broderick and Nesbitt passed the door, a handsome and richly clad woman emerged. Trickling tears had devastated the cosmetic smoothness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked frantic. But she proceeded calmly, almost haughtily to a waiting carriage. The driver whipped his horses and the equipage rolled on through a scattering crowd, some of whom shouted epithets after it. "That was Belle Cora, who keeps that bawdy house up town," Nesbitt volunteered. "Yes," said Broderick musingly, "she seemes to take it hard." "She's mad about the fellow," Nesbitt waved a parting salutation and walked toward the Bulletin office. Broderick turned homeward, thinking of the two dark figures he had passed on Clay street where the killing had taken place. Perchance if he had stopped as he was minded, the tragedy might have been averted. Nobody seemed to know just how it came about. The thing was most unfortunate politically. King would stir up a hornet's nest of public opinion. Broderick reached his lodgings and at once retired. His sleep was fitful. He dreamed that Alice Windham and Sheriff Scannell were fighting for his soul. In the morning he met Benito on the plaza and the two encountered Colonel E.D. Baker. "I hear you're Cora's counsel," said Benito with a touch of disapproval. Baker looked at the young man over his spectacles. He was a big impressive man whose appearance as well as his words swayed juries. He commanded large fees. It was to Broderick rather than Benito that he made reply.