"
"But Ruef's not daunted by the prospect."
"Heavens, no. The man has infinite self-confidence. And it's no fatuous
egotism, either. A sort of suave, unshakable trust in himself. Abe
Ruef's the cleverest politician San Francisco's known in many
years--perhaps since Broderick. He makes such men as Burns and Buckley
look like tyros--"
Robert looked up quickly. "By the way, I've often wondered whether
Buckley wasn't guilty of your disappearance. He meant you no good."
"No," Francisco answered. "I've looked into that. Chris, himself, had
no connection with it. Once he threatened me ... but I've since learned
what he meant.... Just a little blackmail which concerned a woman.
But--" he hesitated.
Robert moved uneasily. "But--what?"
"Oh, well, it didn't work. The girl he planned to use told him the
truth." Francisco, too, seemed ill at ease. "It was so long ago ... it's
all forgotten."
"I trust so," said the other. Rather abruptly he rose. "Must be getting
back to work."
* * * * *
Once a week Frank donned his evening clothes and was driven to a certain
splendid home on Pacific Heights. Bertha Larned met him always with a
smile--and a different gown.
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