It was only a short distance, and in less than fifteen minutes they were in the office of Mr. William Howard Reynolds, who was better known to the shady side of San Francisco than he was to the reputable inhabitants of the town. The office was in an old, rather dilapidated building, not far from the city hall.
“Mr. Reynolds is in,” so the clerk in charge of the outer office informed them, “but is particularly engaged at this time. If the gentlemen will be seated, I will learn if Mr. Reynolds will see them.”
Going into an inner office, he returned a moment later to say that Mr. Reynolds was very busy, and that he would not be able to give them any time unless their business with him was of importance.
“Tell him,” directed Jim, “that I wish to see him on a matter of much importance to Senor de Cordova.”
The clerk, a man of about forty, with an expressionless face, except for a cunning twinkle about the eyes, took the card Jim handed him, and again disappeared into the inner room.
At this moment Jim, who was standing by the windows looking upon the street, happened to glance down and caught a glimpse of the familiar figure of Captain Broome, who had apparently just emerged from the building.
“I wonder what he was doing here,” muttered Jim to himself.
“Who? What?” asked Berwick.
“Sh!” whispered Jim, “I will tell you later.”
“Mr. Reynolds will see you for a few minutes,” announced the clerk, holding open the door to the inner office for them to pass through.