Francisco decided not to wait.  After all, he had learned what he came for.

Abe Ruef had borrowed a “presence.”

CHAPTER LXXV

A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE

Stanley was to learn much more of Eugene Schmitz.  It was in fact the following day that he met Ruef and the violinist at Zinkand’s.  Schmitz was a man of imposing presence.  He stood over six feet high; his curly coal-black hair and pointed beard, his dark, luminous eyes and a certain dash in his manner, gave him a glamor of old-world romance.  In a red cap and ermine-trimmed robe, he might have been Richelieu, defying the throne.  Or, otherwise clad, the Porthos of Dumas’ “Three Musketeers.”

Francisco could not help reflecting that Ruef had borrowed a very fine presence indeed.

Ruef asked Francisco to his table.  He talked a great deal about politics.  Schmitz listened open-eyed; Stanley more astutely.  All at once Ruef leaned toward Francisco.

“What do you think of Mr. Schmitz—­as a candidate for Mayor?” he asked.

“I think,” Francisco answered meaningly, “that you have chosen well.”  They rose, shook hands.  To Francisco’s surprise Schmitz left them.  “I have a matinee this afternoon,” he said.  Ruef walked down Market street with Stanley.

“He’s leader of the Columbia orchestra....  I met him through my dealings with the Musicians’ Union.”  Impulsively he grasped Francisco’s arm.  “Isn’t he a wonder?  I’ll clean up the town with him.  Watch me!”

“And, are you certain you can manage this chap?”

Ruef laughed a quiet little laugh of deep content.  “Oh, Gene is absolutely plastic.  Just a handsome musician.  And of good, plain people.  His father was a German band leader; his mother is Irish—­Margaret Hogan.  That will help.  And he is a Native Son.”

Ruef babbled on.  He had a great plan for combining all political factions—­an altruistic dream of economic brotherhood.  Francisco listened somewhat skeptically.  He was not certain of the man’s sincerity, but he admired Ruef.  Of his executive ability there could be no doubt.

Yet there was something vaguely wrong about the wondrous fitness of Ruef’s plan.  Mary Godwin Shelley’s tale of “Frankenstein” came to Francisco’s mind.

* * * * *

That evening Frank said to his father, with a wink at Jeanne, “Want to go slumming with me tonight, father?  I’m going to do my first signed story:  ’The Night-Life of This Town’.”

“Do you think I ought to, Jeanne?” asked her husband whimsically.  He glanced at his son.  “This younger generation is a trifle—­er—­vehement for old fogies like me.”

Jeanne came over and sat on the arm of his chair.  “Nonsense,” she said, “you are just as young as ever, Francisco....  Yes, go with the boy, by all means.  I’ll run up to Maizie’s for the evening.  She’s making a dress for Alice’s birthday party.  She will be sixteen next month.”