It brought a singular shock to Gilderman, who was still impressed by the recollection of the brief talk that he had had with his father-in-law. He said to himself, as he sat leaning back in the carriage, “It’s a confounded shame!”
He thought about it intermittently all the way down to the office and until the brougham stopped at the sidewalk and he got out.
The office was on the first floor of an imposing brown-stone building. Over the great, glazed doors were carved in relief the words:
“Gilderman Building.”
On both sides of the plate-glass windows that looked out into the busy street were gilt letters:
“Office of the Gilderman Estate.”
Now the windows were open, and through them he could see the clerks busy over the books. They looked warm, and wore linen or madras jackets. Mr. Wright, the manager, was standing with the cashier looking over a book. They neither of them saw him.
“You may come for me at three o’clock,” Gilderman said to the man, who stood holding open the door of the brougham. And then he turned and went up the steps and through the swinging-door. The electric-fans were whirring, and the air felt cool after the hot street outside.
He went directly through to the manager’s room beyond. Those whom he passed turned and looked after him; he was used to having men look after him in that way. He felt that the fact of his presence became almost instantly known throughout the entire office. There was a silent, indescribable movement among the clerks. He saw the cashier speak to Mr. Wright, the manager, who looked up sharply.
Gilderman went directly into his private office. He laid his hat on the table among the newspapers. There was a brass electric-fan on the mantel, and he turned the switch and started it moving, standing before the refreshing coolness. As he did so the other door opened and Mr. Wright came in. The manager bowed and Gilderman acknowledged his presence with a nod. He did not move away from the cooling breezes of the fan.