The Overland was several hours late; it was nearly four o’clock of a foggy April afternoon before Brainard emerged from the ferry station with his big valise in his hand. His first intention had been to go to a hotel and there deposit his bag and make inquiries. The miner had urged him to accompany him to the old “Palace.” “They say it’s finer than ever since the quake.” But Brainard, reflecting that it was Saturday afternoon and considering that a few hours’ delay might mean the loss of two days, shook hands with his fellow travelers and turned to the telephone booths to discover Krutzmacht’s city address. When he had memorized the street and number he started up Market Street, still carrying his bag. He was astonished to see how thoroughly the city had recovered from its disaster in little more than a year. There were large gaps in the business blocks, to be sure, but it was a lively, substantial city with a great deal of building going forward, especially in the noisy erection of tall steel buildings. The very sight of these ambitious structures inspired courage!
After a short walk Brainard found himself at the entrance of a large, new building on Sutter Street that corresponded with the number he had memorized. He stood on the curb for a few moments staring up at the windows. Now that he had reached his goal, a trace of his former habit of despondency came over him, making him hesitate before the final effort, but shaking himself free from the old morbidness he walked briskly into the building. When he emerged from the elevator on the top floor, the boy pointed down the corridor. “The last one on the right,” he said.
Brainard passed a number of offices whose doors bore in small black letters the names of different companies,—“Pacific Northern Railroad,” “Great Western Land and Improvement Company,” “The Shasta Corporation.” At the extreme end of the corridor was a door with the simple lettering, “Herbert Krutzmacht.” The plain black letters of the name had something of the same potency that the signature at the bottom of the power of attorney had. Like that, like the sick man himself who had painfully gasped out his last orders, they were a part of the substantial realm of fact. So far, at least, the dream held! There was a real man named Krutzmacht, engaged in important business enterprises, and from what Brainard had learned on the train he knew that there was a crisis in his affairs.
With his hand on the door-handle he paused. His heart beat fast, and he looked around him nervously as if expecting to see an officer of the court lurking somewhere in the corridor. There was no one on this floor, however. The quiet of a late Saturday afternoon had settled down on the busy building, but within the private office Brainard could hear the slow click of a typewriter. He pushed open the door and entered.
It was a large, rather barely furnished room, evidently used as an ante-room to other offices. Near the window a young woman was seated at a desk, lazily examining a mass of papers and occasionally tapping the keys of a machine, with the desultory air of an employee killing time at the end of the day. She was a distinctly good looking woman, Brainard observed, although no longer young, with abundant coarse black hair, fresh complexion, and decidedly plump.
The stenographer looked up from her work at Brainard with a start as if she had been expecting some one, but quickly composed herself.
“Well, what is it?” she asked with a peculiar intonation that indicated hostility.
Brainard was at a loss for a reply and stood gaping at the stenographer foolishly. He had not thought of meeting a woman. He had known few women, and he lacked confidence in dealing with them.
“Is—is Mr. Krutzmacht in?” he stammered awkwardly, and cursed himself for the silly question.
The woman gave him a suspicious look and answered shortly: