He was a stalwart, rather handsome man, bearded and bronzed as if through long exposure. And in his walk there was a suggestion of that rolling gait which smacks of maritime pursuits. He proceeded aimlessly up Market street, gazing round him, still with that odd, half-doubting and half-troubled manner. In front of the Palace Hotel he paused, seemed about to enter, but went on. He halted once again at Third street, surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower.
"What place is that?" he queried of a bystander.
"That? Why, the Chronicle building."
The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious, detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney."
"Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here, formerly?"
"I? No." He spoke evasively and hurried on. "I wonder what made me say that?" he mumbled to himself.
Down Kearney street he walked. Now and then his eyes lit as if with some half-formed memory and he made queer, futile gestures with his hands. Before a stairway leading to an upper floor, he stopped, and, with the dreamy, passive air of a somnambulist, ascended, entering through swinging doors a large, pleasant room, tapestried, ornamented with paintings and statuary. Half a dozen men lounging in large leathern chairs glanced up and away with polite unrecognition. The stranger was made aware of a boy in a much-buttoned uniform holding a silver tray.
"Who do you wish to see, sir?"
"Oh--ah--" spoke the stranger, "this is the Bohemian Club, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I call the house manager, sir?"