Baldwin had a great ranch in the South, where he bred blooded horses. He owned the Baldwin theater and the Baldwin Hotel, which rivaled the Palace. Women, racing and stocks were his hobbies. Benito had done some legal work for Baldwin and Robert knew him casually. Rather to his surprise Baldwin stopped, laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Hello, lad," he greeted; "want a tip on the stock market?" Tips from "Lucky" were worth their weight in gold. Robert was astonished. "Why--yes, thank you, sir," he stammered. "Well, don't play it ... that's the best tip in the world." The operator walked off chuckling. * * * * * Robert continued his walk along Montgomery street to Market, where he turned westward. It was Saturday and his father's office, where he was now studying law, had been closed since noon. It had become a custom--almost an unwritten law--to promenade San Francisco's lordly thoroughfare on the last afternoon of the week, especially the northern side. For Market street was now a social barrier. South of it were smaller, meaner shops, saloons, beer-swilling "cafe chantants," workmen's eating houses and the like, with, of course, the notable exceptions of the Grand and Palace Hotels. On the northern side were the gay haberdasheries, millinery stores, cafes and various business marts, where fashionable San Francisco shopped. Where men with top hats, walking sticks and lavender silk waistcoats ogled the feminine fashion parade. As he passed the Baldwin Hotel with its broadside of bow-windows, Robert became aware of some disturbance. A large dray drawn by four horses, plumed and flower garlanded, was wending a triumphal course up Market street. A man stood in the center of it waving his hat--a stocky fellow in soiled trousers and an old gray sweater. Shouts of welcome hailed him as the dray rolled on; most of them came from the opposite or southern side. "It's Dennis Kearney," said a man near Robert. "He and his gang were released from custody today.... Now we'll have more trouble." Robert followed the dray expectantly. But Kearney made no overt demonstration. He seemed much subdued by his fortnight in jail. The swift California dusk was falling. The afternoon was gone. And Robert, realizing that it was past the dinner hour at his home, decided to find his evening meal at a restaurant. One of these, with a display of shell-fish grouped about a miniature fountain in its window, confronted him ere long and he entered a rococo interior of mirrored walls. What caught his fancy more than the ornate furnishings, however, was a very pretty girl sitting within a cashier's cage of iron grill-work. It happened that she was smiling as he glanced her way. She had golden hair with a hint of red in it, a dainty oval face, like his mother's; eyes that were friendly and eager with youth. Robert smiled back at her involuntarily.