The old man looked puzzled. There were signs of repressed mirth among the other stenographers and the persons who were waiting.
“You don’t understand,” said the girl. “I mean — has Mr. Blefken arranged to see you?”
“He’ll see me, all right!” retorted the old man. “Just you tell him that John Kittinger’s stepdaddy is waiting out here. He knows Johnny, all right. They were buddies in the army, they were.”
“Sit down,” said the girl, indicating a chair.
The old man threw a triumphant glance along the row of waiting clients. He seemed to take pride in what he had just said. He was mumbling as he sat down, and he stared boldly toward the door which the girl entered.
Half a minute went by. Then the girl reappeared, a look of surprise upon her face. She approached the patriarch.
“You can go right in,” she said. “Mr. Blefken is ready to see you.”
Triumph shone in the old man’s face as he arose and hobbled toward the door of the private office. He turned, and his beard wagged as he looked back at the other people.
The girl turned the knob. The door opened, and John Kittinger’s stepfather was ushered into the private domain of Charles Blefken, the prominent corporation lawyer.
A FIRM-FACED man was seated at a desk. He was dictating a letter to a stenographer. Charles Blefken appeared about fifty years of age — a man of dynamic personality and high reputation.