"That is true, although I am convinced that you will find Randolph Mason a myth."
"At any rate, we have nothing to lose, brother; there may be something in it. Will you go with me to-morrow morning?"
The dark man nodded assent, and proceeded to add his autograph to the club's collection, as evidenced by its wine ticket.
Gordon and Sidney Montcure were high-caste club men of the New York type, brokers and plungers until three p.m., immaculate gentlemen thereafter. Both were shrewd men of the world. And as they left the Ephmere Club that night, that same club and divers shop-men of various guilds had heavy equitable interests in the success of their plans.
Shortly after ten the following morning, the two brothers entered the great building in which Randolph Mason was supposed to have his office. There, on the marble-slab directory, was indeed the name; but it bore no indication of his business, and simply informed the stranger that he was to be found on the second floor front. The two men stepped into the elevator, and asked the boy to show them to Mr. Mason's office. The boy put them off on the second floor, and directed them to enquire at the third door to the left. They found here a frosted glass door with "Randolph Mason, Counsellor," on an ancient silver strip fastened to the middle panel. Sidney Montcure opened the door, and the two entered. The office room into which they came was large and scrupulously clean.
The walls were literally covered with maps of every description. Two rows of mammoth closed bookcases extended across the room, and there were numerous file cases of the most improved pattern. At a big flat-topped table, literally heaped with letters, sat their friend, the little bald, melancholy man, writing as though his very life and soul were at stake.
"We desire to speak with Mr. Mason, sir," said Sidney Montcure, addressing the little man. The man arose, and went into the adjoining room. In a moment he returned and announced that Mr. Mason would see the gentlemen at once in his private office.
They found the private office of Randolph Mason to be in appearance much like the private office of a corporation attorney. The walls were lined with closed bookcases, and there were piles of plats and blue prints and bundles of papers scattered over a round-topped mahogany table.
Randolph Mason turned round in his chair as the men entered.
"Be seated, gentlemen," he said, removing his eye-glasses. "In what manner can I be of service?" His articulation was metallic and precise.