“Who the devil’s this?” He indicated a man sprawled in one of the bunks, who, despite a stubble of beard and ill-fitting sea clothes, was unmistakably a gentleman.

“Don’t know—­rum sort for a sailor.  Got knocked on the head in a scrimmage.  Cawnt remember nothing but his name, Francisco.”

CHAPTER LXXIII

THE RETURN

In the fall of 1898 a man of middle years walked slowly down the stairs which plunged a traveler from the new Ferry building’s upper floor into the maelstrom of Market street’s beginning.  Cable cars were whirling on turn-tables, newsboys shouted afternoon editions; hack drivers, flower vendors, train announcers added their babel of strident-toned outcries to the clanging of gongs, the clatter of wheels and hoofs upon cobblestone streets.  Ferry sirens screamed; an engine of the Belt Line Railroad chugged fiercely as it pulled a train of freight cars toward the southern docks.

The stranger paused, apparently bewildered by this turmoil.

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?”

At the other’s nod he vanished to return with a spectacled man who looked inquiring.

“I beg your pardon—­for intruding,” said the bearded man slowly.  “But—­I couldn’t help it....  I was once a member here.”