I stumbled upon the hop joint of “California Jack,” an old Chinaman from Sacramento, who was waxing fat in his make-believe laundry in South State Street. Thieves, pickpockets, and pimps and their girls smoked unmolested day or night. Now and then a tired waiter or bartender threw himself wearily on a bunk.

I fell in with a wolfish-eyed girl of the streets, hungry and shivering in a doorway, so shabby that men would not throw an appraising glance at her. Like Julia she was almost ready for the river. I bought her food and clothes and a room. I gave her no advice and sought no profit from the transaction. With better clothes and food she plied her trade confidently and prospered. I saw her often on the streets. One night she paid me the money I had spent for her.

Then came a midnight when she knocked at my door, pale, panting with fear. “You must help me,” she implored. “I have no friend but you. A man is dead in my room. If he is found there the police⁠—you know⁠—they’ll say it’s murder.”