.. if certain enemies should have a chance to call Bill
Ralston's hand, I tell ye, it would mean dee-saster!"
* * * * *
At 9 o'clock on the morning of August 25, Francisco Stanley entered the
private door of Windham's office. He was now an under-editor on The
Chronicle, which had developed from the old Dramatic Chronicle, into a
daily newspaper. Benito glanced up from his desk a bit impatiently; it
was a busy day.
"What's the matter, Francisco? You're excited."
"I've a right to be," the journalist spoke sharply. He glanced at his
uncle's secretary. "I must see you alone."
"Can't you come in later? I've a lot of clients waiting."
"For God's sake, Uncle Ben," the younger man said desperately, "send
them off."
Benito gazed at him, astonished. Then convinced by something in
Francisco's eyes, he nodded to the secretary who departed.
"It's Ralston ... word has reached the newspapers ... his bank has
failed."
Benito sprang to his feet. "You're crazy! It's--impossible!"
"Uncle Ben, IT'S TRUE!" His fingers closed almost spasmodically upon the
other's arm.
"How do you know?"
"RALSTON SAYS SO. I've just come from there.
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