One afternoon Keith walked down Kearney Street deep in discussion of an important Federal case with his friend, Billy Richardson, the United States Marshal. Although both just and an official, Richardson was popular with all classes save those with whom his duty brought him into conflict. They found their way deliberately blocked, and came out of the absorption of their discussion to recognize before them Charles Cora, an Italian gambler of considerable prominence and wealth. Cora was a small, dark man, nervously built, dressed neatly and carefully in the height of gambler fashion. He seemed to be terribly excited, and at once launched a stream of oaths at Richardson.
"What's the matter with you, Charley?" asked the latter, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise.
Cora, evidently too incoherent to speak, leaped at the marshal, his fist drawn back. Keith seized him around the body, holding his arms to his sides.
"Hold on; take it easy!" he panted. "What's up, anyway?"
Cora, struggling violently, gritted out:
"He knows damn well what's up."
"I'll swear I don't!" denied Richardson.
"Then what do you mean telling every one that my Belle insulted your wife last night at the opera house?" demanded Cora, ceasing to struggle.
"Belle?" repeated Richardson equably. "I don't know what you're talking about. Be reasonable. Explain yourself."
"Yes, I got it straight," insisted the Italian. "Your wife says it insults her to sit next to my Belle, and you go everywhere telling it. What right you got to do that? Answer me that!"