Jack turned down Broad Street, crossed over, passed the Stock Exchange, and hastened along until he came to Exchange Place, a narrow thoroughfare, more like a lane than a street, which was somewhat gloomy even on the brightest days because of the tall buildings that fringed both sides.
He easily found the number he wanted, took an elevator, and was carried to the top floor.
“Number Ninety-six, to your left,” said the elevator man as Jack stepped out into the corridor.
Numberless doors, the upper part of which were fitted with frosted glass bearing the name of a firm, stared the boy in the face as he hurried forward and turned down a shorter corridor to the left as he had been directed to do.
No. 96 was at the extreme end of the corridor facing him, so he had nothing to do but walk straight ahead, turn the handle of the door and enter.
He delivered the envelope to a dudish-looking clerk and then flopped down on a cane chair.
At that moment there was a sudden commotion in the private office of the firm.
All the clerks looked up in a startled way as a man’s voice exclaimed, in hoarse accents:
“I tell you I’m utterly ruined! I can’t deliver that stock by noon, and since you refuse to let up on me, Hartz, there’s nothing left for me to do but this——”
“You’re crazy, man—put down that revolver!” in lower but not less excited tones.