de his way again
into the street.

Presently he went into the stock exchange, almost deserted now, after
the close of the morning session. O'Brien was there, smoking a long
black cigar and chatting in his boisterous, confidential way with Asbury
Harpending. The latter was babbling in real estate.

"Hullo, Windham!" he greeted. "You don't look very fit.... Been ill?"

"Yes," Benito told him. "Laid up since the last of May. What's new?"

"Nothing much--since the bottom dropped out of Comstock."

Instinctively Benito's hand went out toward a chair. He sank into it
weakly. So that was the explanation of Ralston's swift departure.

He felt the men's eyes upon him as he walked unsteadily to the files and
scanned them. Ophir stock had dropped 50 per cent. Gould and Curry was
even lower. Benito closed the book and walked blindly out of
the exchange.

After a time he heard footsteps following. Harpending's voice came,
"Hey, there, Windham." Benito turned.

"Cleaned out?" asked the other sympathetically.

"Not--quite."

"Then forget the stocks. They're tricky things at best.... I've a
proposition that's a winner. Positively.... There's law work to be done.
We need you."

"Montgomery Street Straight" was the plan. It was to be extended across
Market street either in a straight line or at an easy angle--over all
obstructions to the bay.

"But such a scheme would involve millions," Benito objected. "It would
cut through the Latham and Parrott homes for instance.... Old Senator
Latham would hold you up for a prohibitive price. And Parrott would
fight you to a finish."

"Quite right," returned Harpending. "That's where you come in, Benito.
We want you to draw us a bill and lobby it through the Legislature...."

"The thing is to make it a law. Then the Governor must appoint a
commission. The Latham and Parrott properties will be condemned and we
can acquire them at a fair price."

"Very well," Benito answered. "It's a go."

Several days after his talk with Harpending, Benito met Adrian and
Francisco, the latter a tall, gangling lad of sixteen. Father and son
were talking animatedly, discussing some point on which Francisco seemed
determined to have his way.

"What d'ye think of this youngster of mine?" Stanley questioned.
"Scarcely out of short pants and wants to be a newspaper man! I say he
should go to school a few years more ... to one of those Eastern
colleges you hear so much about. I've the money. He doesn't