* * * * *
Francisco stopped at Robert's office on his way home. Windham had moved
into one of the new buildings, with an elevator, on Kearney street. In
his private office was a telephone, one of those new instruments for
talking over a wire which still excited curiosity, though they were
being rapidly installed by the Pacific Bell Company. Hotels,
newspapers, the police and fire departments were equipped with them,
but private subscribers were few, Francisco had noticed one of the
instruments in Buckley's saloon.
Robert had not returned from court, but was momentarily expected. His
amanuensis ushered Francisco into the private office. He sat down and
picked up a newspaper, glancing idly over the news.
A bell tinkled somewhere close at hand. It must be the telephone. Rather
gingerly, for he had never handled one before, Francisco picked up the
receiver, put it to his ear. It was a man's voice insisting that a
probate case be settled. Francisco tried to make him understand that
Robert was out. But the voice went on. Apparently the transmitting
apparatus was defective. Francisco could not interrupt the flow
of words.
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