"Whew!" said Blake, stepping out and dropping his suitcase, to shed his English raincoat. "Talk about Mozambique! Guess you know now you're in Hammurica, me lud. All the way from the Pole to Panama in one swing of the street door."
"What was your friend's number?" asked Lord James, eying the doors across the corridor.
"Seventeen-fifteen. Must be down this way," answered Blake.
Catching up his suitcase, he led around to the rear corner of the building. At the end of the side hall they came to a door marked "No. 1715." On the frosted glass below the number there was painted in plain black letters a modest sign:
M. F. GRIFFITH, C. E. CONSULTING ENGINEER
Blake led the way in and across to the plain table-desk where a young clerk was checking up a surveyor's field book.
"Hello," said Blake. "Mr. Griffith in?"
"Why, yes, he's in. But I think he's busy," replied the clerk, starting to rise. "I'll see. What business?"
"Don't bother, sonny," said Blake. "We'll just step in and sit down."
The clerk stared, but resumed his seat, while Blake crossed to the door marked "Private," and motioned Lord James to follow him in. When they entered, a lank, gray-haired man sat facing them at a table-desk as plain as the clerk's. It was covered with drawings, over which the veteran engineer was poring with such intentness that he failed to perceive his callers.