Such a man was Herman Spreckles, of Chicago. Rumor had it that, besides his many other interests, he was the moving spirit of a gigantic secret combination of jewelers which ruled the diamond market of the United States with a rod of iron.
Marcus Meyer hurried forward with both hands outstretched.
“My dear Mr. Spreckles!” he cried joyfully. “I am very glad to see you. We were beginning to fear that you had missed your train.”
The tall man sniffed scornfully as he took one of the Hebrew’s hands.
“Huh! Did you ever know me to miss a train, Meyer?” he inquired.
Then he looked out in the hall.
“Come in, Pickering—come in!” he said sharply. “Don’t dawdle out there.”
He moved away from the door, and a slim, alert-looking man of about forty appeared, at the sight of whom Marcus Meyer’s eyes sparkled.
“Ah—Pickering!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “I’m glad you’re here. We shall need the skill of the best diamond expert in the country before we’re through, or I’m very much mistaken.”
Meanwhile Herman Spreckles had advanced to the table, where Philander Morgan arose ponderously to greet him.