“Indeed I do!” returned the old man. “This is the place my stepson told me to come. This here city is a big one, but I guess there’s not a lot of lawyers with a name like Blefken! I reckon he’s the one I want to see!”
The boy opened the door, and the old man tottered into the outer office of Blefken’s suite. It was a busy place.
Three or four stenographers at desks; three men and a woman waiting in chairs along the wall. Half a dozen doors to private offices made up the farther wall. They bore names of different attorneys.
The old man went forward and began to study each door, looking for the name of Blefken.
One of the stenographers approached him.
“Whom do you wish to see?” she questioned.
“The lawyer,” replied the old man.
“Which lawyer?”
“Charles Blefken.”
“Did you have an appointment?”