In front of the Palace Hotel he paused, seemed
about to enter, but went on. He halted once again at Third street,
surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower.
"What place is that?" he queried of a bystander.
"That? Why, the Chronicle building."
The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious,
detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney."
"Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here,
formerly?"
"I? No." He spoke evasively and hurried on. "I wonder what made me say
that?" he mumbled to himself.
Down Kearney street he walked. Now and then his eyes lit as if with some
half-formed memory and he made queer, futile gestures with his hands.
Before a stairway leading to an upper floor, he stopped, and, with the
dreamy, passive air of a somnambulist, ascended, entering through
swinging doors a large, pleasant room, tapestried, ornamented with
paintings and statuary. Half a dozen men lounging in large leathern
chairs glanced up and away with polite unrecognition. The stranger was
made aware of a boy in a much-buttoned uniform holding a silver tray.
"Who do you wish to see, sir?"
"Oh--ah--" spoke the stranger, "this is the Bohemian Club, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir.
Pages:
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428