A policeman saw him staring in at the window, and asked him his business.
"I want to find Mr. Armstrong, the R. R. president."
"Then you must go up-stairs. There is the door."
He walked up and saw another room, with gentlemen sitting in easy attitudes in comfortable chairs. He asked a clerk for Mr. Armstrong, and was told that he was in Washington, on business.
"Business connected with a patent?"
"Yes; I believe so. What did you want of him?"
"Nothing. Say only that Stephen Trimble called."
"What! is this Stephen Trimble?" exclaimed a hearty voice behind him; and, turning, the inventor saw an earnest but kindly looking man, who had just entered carrying a hand-bag.
"That is Mr. Armstrong," said the clerk, and Stephen Trimble stared fascinated.
"Step into my private office," said the financier, "I am glad you have come. It is always better to transact business at first hand, and I was sorry you could not come when Mr. Meyer asked you to do so."