Not far from where they sat was a corner office. Here at a roller-top desk was a middle-aged man, thin and pale of countenance. He was talking to a visitor, a rough, bearded individual, evidently from the Far West.
"I'll see Balasco about that deal," the visitor was saying. "And if he agrees we'll be in good shape to go ahead."
"That's true, Hildan," was the hesitating reply. "But I—er—I question the—er——"
"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Force. The deal is as straight as a string."
"It doesn't look so to me."
"But it is, take my word on it. That contract will come this way, and when it does I, of course, will get my commission."
"Certainly, you'll get your commission."
"Then that settles it and I won't take any more of your time. If you see Wilbur tell him——"
At that moment the bearded man glanced toward the doorway and stopped short. Another person had come in, and, looking in the direction, Dale and Owen saw that it was Jefferson Wilbur himself who had entered.
They were on the point of greeting their friend, when the bearded man rushed forward and caught Mr. Wilbur by the hand and shook it earnestly. He pretended to be greatly pleased at the meeting, but the same could not be said of the one whom he met, who took his hand coldly. Then followed an earnest talk for several minutes, and the bearded man showed several documents he carried in his pocket.