“There isn’t time—this is a gold stampede. You haven’t caught the spirit of it yet.”
They climbed the stairs in a huge, iron-sheeted building to the office of Dunham & Struve, and in answer to their knock, a red-faced, white-haired, tousled man, in shirt-sleeves and stocking-feet, opened the door.
“What d’ye wan’?” he bawled, his legs wavering uncertainly. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, his lips loose, and his whole person exhaled alcoholic fumes like a gust from a still-house. Hanging to the knob, he strove vainly to solve the mystery of his suspenders—hiccoughing intermittently.
“Humph! Been drunk ever since I left?” questioned Glenister.
“Somebody mus’ have tol’ you,” the lawyer replied. There was neither curiosity, recognition, nor resentment in his voice. In fact, his head drooped so that he paid no attention to the girl, who had shrunk back at sight of him. He was a young man, with marks of brilliancy showing through the dissipation betrayed by his silvery hair and coarsened features.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” lamented the girl.
“Anybody else here besides you?” asked her escort of the lawyer.
“No. I’m runnin’ the law business unassisted. Don’t need any help. Dunham’s in Wash’n’ton, D. C, the lan’ of the home, the free of the brave. What can I do for you?”
He made to cross the threshold hospitably, but tripped, plunged forward, and would have rolled down the stairs had not Glenister gathered him up and borne him back into the office, where he tossed him upon a bed in a rear room.
“Now what, Miss Chester?” asked the young man, returning.