Evan presented himself at this address at a few minutes past nine, when offices were just opening. Dordess, it appeared, was not a journalist, as Evan had once guessed, but an architect; that is to say, an elderly architectural draughtsman, one of the race of slaves who help build other men's reputations.
Early as it was, Dordess had already been apprised of Evan's coming. Evan had only to look at him to know that. The ironic smile of the man of the world was on his lips, in his eyes the resentful hatred of a youth for his successful rival. The package of bonds was already done up and waiting, it appeared. With scarcely a glance at Corinna's note, which Evan offered him, Dordess handed it over.
"Better open it and look them over," he said bitterly.
"Time enough for that," said Evan. "I want to talk to you."
Dordess' eyebrows went up.
"Oh, I know you hate me like the devil," said Evan. "But I'm hoping you'll know me better some day. Anyhow, I want to talk to you privately for a few minutes. Is it safe here? I want to put up a scheme to you."
Dordess indicated the package. "What more is there to say?" he asked with his bitter smile.
"Better hear it," said Evan. "It may make it easier all around. Won't hurt you to listen, anyway."
"All right," said Dordess. "Can't talk here. Too many going in and out. I'll come out with you."
They ensconced themselves in an alcove of the café across the street.