CHAPTER X
The bells in Old Trinity were chiming the hour of five and all New York began to turn its face homeward. The human tide flowed from offices to elevators, from elevators to corridors and thence in an ever growing stream toward the subway and elevated stations. The sun, like a round red Chinese lamp, was poised above the gathering mists of the Jersey shore, ready for its plunge behind the distant hills. Office boys and bank presidents, stenographers and captains of industry fought democratically for seats in the overcrowded trains, while over all sounded the shrill call of the newsboys as they disposed of the afternoon papers. Down-town New York had completed another day—the tides now moved on to Jersey, Harlem, Brooklyn, or the great center of life that throbs unceasingly about Times Square.
Against this ever increasing torrent of humanity Mr. Ogden Brennan of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, Attorneys-at-Law, struggled irritably, as he forced his way from a down-town subway train, and hurried to the firm’s extensive suite of offices in Wall Street, near Broadway.
He gave a quick glance about as he entered, and, making rapidly for his private office, called sharply to young Garvan, one of his assistants, to ask Mr. Shaw to join him at once. Mr. Brennan was tall and gaunt-looking, and peremptory alike in his physical and mental processes, and, when he entered his office, as he did on this occasion, in a more than usually energetic fashion, everybody, down to William the office boy, was galvanized into an unwonted activity.
Mr. Shaw, the junior member of the firm, with a dinner on at his club, had already donned his overcoat and was giving some parting instructions to his stenographer as young Garvan entered and delivered the message. He took up his hat with a sigh—he was of a more placid and phlegmatic temperament than his partner—and, picking up his afternoon paper, folded it carefully, selected his walking stick from the stand near the door, and proceeded in a leisurely manner to Mr. Brennan’s private office.
The firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw was a large one, and its principal practice lay in the handling of the affairs of corporations and estates. Criminal practice knew it not, but it was said of Mr. Shaw that he could draw a better contract, or handle a difficult merger, more successfully than any other lawyer in New York, which was saying much. Mr. Brennan dealt with estates and wills—the latter were his hobby. He claimed that none drawn by himself had ever been broken.
As Mr. Shaw entered his partner’s private office, with a bland look of inquiry upon his well-bred countenance, he observed Mr. Brennan throw down upon his desk, with an exclamation of annoyance, a thin legal document, comprising but two pages, written, as he noted, in longhand, instead of the usual typewritten characters. Mr. Brennan looked up with a frown.
“Sam,” he said hurriedly, “you know that young Billy West? He’s dead.”
Mr. Shaw put on his eyeglasses, and regarded Mr. Brennan curiously. “I don’t seem to remember him,” he replied. “Who was he?”