At his table in the far corner of Bertrand’s he mused over the various reports he had heard. The death of Shackleton would undoubtedly throw the present makeup of _The Trumpet_ out of gear. Its sale would be inevitable. From what he had heard of him, Win Shackleton would be quite incapable of taking his father’s place as proprietor and manager of the paper that Jake Shackleton, the man of brain and initiative, was transforming into a powerful organ of public opinion. And in the general weeding out of men which would unquestionably occur, why should not Barry Essex mount to a top place? _The Trumpet_ had always paid its capable men large salaries. It was worth while considering. Essex had now decided to remain in San Francisco, at least throughout the winter. The climate pleased him; the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the remote, picturesque city continued to exert its charm. The very duck he was now eating, far beyond his purse in any other American city, was an inducement to remain. But the real one was the woman, all the more desperately desired because denied him. Her indignation had not repelled him, but he saw it would mean a long wooing. Once in his own room, he kindled the fire and drew toward him a pile of reference books he had to consult for an article on the great actresses of the French stage from Clairon to Rachel. These light and brilliant essays had been an experiment of Shackleton’s, who maintained that the Sunday edition should furnish food for all types of minds. Essex had produced exactly the class of matter wanted, and received for it the generous pay that the proprietor of _The Trumpet_ was always ready to give for good work. The reader was fluttering the leaves of the first book of the pile when a knock at the door stopped him. He knew it was his neighbor across the hall, who had been in bed for over a week, sick with bronchitis. Essex had seen the man several times during his seclusion and had conceived a carelessly cynical interest in him. When sober, he had developed remarkable anecdotal capacity, which had immensely amused his new acquaintance. Tales of ’49 and the early Comstock days, scandals of those now in high places, discreditable accounts of the making of fortunes, flowed from his lips in a high-colored and diverting stream. If they were lies they were exceedingly ingenious ones. Essex saw material for a dozen novels in the man’s revealing and lurid recitals. Of his own personal history he was reticent, merely saying that his name was George Harney, and his trade that of job-printer. Drink had almost destroyed him. Physically he was a mere bunch of nerves covered by flabby, sallow flesh. In answer to Essex’s “come in,” the door opened and Harney shambled into the room. He was fully dressed, but showed the evidences of illness in his hollowed cheeks and eyes, and the yellow skin hanging flaccid round jaw and throat. His hand shook and his gait was uncertain, but he was perfectly sober.