This telegram, as the Mayor observed, was dated that day and addressed to Mr. Buchanan Ogilvy, Hotel Sequoia, Sequoia, Calif. Also, with a keen eye to minor details, lie noted that it had been filed at San Francisco SUBSEQUENT to Ogilvy's visit to him that afternoon.
“Ah-h-h!” breathed His Honour. “That accounts for his failure to bring the matter up at our interview. Upon his return to the hotel he found this telegram and got busy at once. By Jupiter, this looks like business. Henry, how did you come into possession of this telegram?”
“It must have been mixed up in the documents Ogilvy left with me. I found it on my desk when I was sorting out the papers, and in my capacity of attorney for the N.C.O. I had no hesitancy in reading it.”
“Well, I do declare! Wonder who Hockley is. Never heard of that fellow in connection with the N.C.O.”
“Hockley doesn't matter,” young Henry declared triumphantly, “although I'd bet a hat he's one of those heavy-weight Wall Street fellows and one of J.P.M's vice-presidents, probably. J.P.M., of course, is the man behind.”
“Who the devil is J.P.M.?”
Henry smiled tolerantly upon his ignorant and guileless parent. “Well, how would J. Pierpont Morgan do for a guess?” he queried.
“Hell's bells and panther-tracks!” Mayor Poundstone started as if snake-bitten. “I should say you have hooked a big fish. Boy, you've landed a whale!” And the Mayor whistled softly in his amazement and delight. “By golly, to think of you getting in with that bunch! Tremendyous! Per-fect-ly tree-mend-yous! Did Ogilvy say anything about future business?”
“He did. Said if I proved satisfactory, he would probably take me on and pay the customary retainer given all of their corporation attorneys.”
“Well, by golly, he'd better take you on! I had a notion that chap Ogilvy was smart enough to know which side his bread is buttered on and who does the buttering.”