Bryce looked him fairly in the eye and favoured him with a lightning wink. “I have never heard of you, Mr. Ogilvy. You are mistaking me for someone else.”
“Sorry,” Ogilvy murmured. “My mistake! Thought you were Bill Kerrick, who used to be a partner of mine. I'm expecting him on this boat, and he's the speaking image of you.”
Bryce nodded and passed on, hailed a taxicab, and was driven to the San Francisco office of his company. Five minutes later the door opened and Buck Ogilvy entered.
“I was a bit puzzled at the dock, Bryce,” he explained as they shook hands, “but decided to play safe and then follow you to your office. What's up? Have you killed somebody, and are the detectives on your trail? If so, 'fess up and I'll assume the responsibility for your crime, just to show you how grateful I am for that hundred.”
“No, I wasn't being shadowed, Buck, but my principal enemy was coming down the gangplank right behind me, and—”
“So was my principal enemy,” Ogilvy interrupted. “What does our enemy look like?”
“Like ready money. And if he had seen me shaking hands with you, he'd have suspected a connection between us later on. Buck, you have a good job—about five hundred a month.”
“Thanks, old man. I'd work for you for nothing. What are we going to do?”
“Build twelve miles of logging railroad and parallel the line of the old wolf I spoke of a moment ago.”
“Good news! We'll do it. How soon do you want it done?”