He led the way to California Street below Sansome, where we climbed a flight of stairs and went down a hall to a glass door that bore the gilt and painted letters, “Omega Mining Co., J. D. Storey, Pres't.”
“There's five minutes to spare,” said my employer. “He may be alone.”
A stout, florid man, with red side-whiskers and a general air of good living, sat by an over-shadowing desk in the handsome office, and looked sourly at us as we entered. He was not alone, for a young man could be seen in a side room that was lettered “Secretary's Office.”
“Ah, Mr. Knapp,” he said, bowing deferentially to the millionaire, and rubbing his fat red hands. “Can I do anything for you to-day?”
“I reckon so, Storey. Let me introduce you to Mr. Wilton, one of our coming directors.”
I had an inward start at this information, and Mr. Storey regarded me unfavorably. We professed ourselves charmed to see each other.
“I suppose it was an oversight that you didn't send me a notice of the directors' meeting,” said Doddridge Knapp.
Mr. Storey turned very red, and the King of the Street said in an undertone: “Just lock that door, Wilton.”
“It must have been sent by mail,” stammered Storey. “Hi, there! young man, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as I turned the key in the lock. “Open that door again!”
“No you don't, Storey,” came the fierce growl from the throat of the Wolf. “Your game is up.”