downtown financial houses; a moment later he returned.
“Fisher & Fisher have just told me, Mr. Prindivale, that the Atlas people are an—an—exclusively small concern, soliciting no public business of any character; it is well understood that they are the private agents for a very reputable financier and that, in short, they confine their activities to handling the confidential matters of”—Mr. Dawes paused impressively—“of J. K.”
Mr. Prindivale started violently.
“Merciful Heaven!” he gasped. “J. K.!”
J. K., it must be explained, was a name to conjure with among financial circles; J. K. were the well-known initials of Mr. James K. Easterday, president of three big banks and financial power extraordinary. What he said was financial law.
It was not, to be sure, within Mr. Prindivale’s province to know, that the original Atlas Investment Company had, a few days before, removed their offices from the Great Lakes Building, and that Mr. Clackworthy had hurriedly leased them, neglecting to remove the neat gilt lettering from the door.
V.
As Mr. Prindivale opened the door of 1924 Great Lakes Building, the scene of luxuriant solidity was, somehow, just as he had pictured it. Mrs. George Bascom, her novel hurriedly consigned to the desk drawer as the caller’s shadow fell across the door’s glass panel, hurried her slim fingers over the typewriter keyboard.
Over in the corner George Bascom wrinkled his brow studiously over his draftsman’s board.
“I wish to see Mr. Clackworthy,” announced Mr. Prindivale.
“Busy just at this moment,” politely responded the pretty stenographer and nodded to a chair. The chair, it happened, through careful calculation, was within easy vision of the drafting board. As Mr. Prindivale strained his neck forward for a closer inspection of the drawings, Mr. Bascom glanced at him suspiciously and rudely draped a large piece of paper over the mass of lines and angles, but not before Mr. Prindivale’s sharp little eyes had seen the words “Monotrack Transit Company.”
“Ah!” breathed Mr. Prindivale. “Secrecy! I knew that something was on foot. Foxy old J. K.”
Inside the private office Mr. Clackworthy calmly smoked his cigar, and marked time until the suburban banker should have waited a sufficient length of time. The master confidence man had adopted none of his long list of pseudonyms in this adventure, for he had carefully laid his plans strictly within legal bounds. Even his possession of the abandoned offices of the Atlas Investment Company and the use of that name on his letterheads were entirely according to law. With customary thoroughness for detail he had discovered that the genuine concern had neglected the little formality of registering with the secretary of state, thus leaving it open to use by others; and Mr. Clackworthy had spent the required incorporation fee of appropriating it, free of possible future embarrassing entanglements.
A moment later The Early Bird, hurrying in from the street with an armful of important-looking documents, paused at Mrs. Bascom’s desk. He sighed and mopped his brow.
“Say,” whispered Mrs. Bascom, making sure that it was loud enough to be heard across the room, “you’d better hurry up with those papers; Mr. Clackworthy’s in a big hurry for them—J. K. is in there with him and they want them quick.”
Hastily James Early grabbed up the documents and hurried into the inside office. Eagerly Mr. Prindivale leaned forward to catch a stray word or sentence that might filter through the heavy door, but, to his chagrin, it was sound proof.
“Well, Old Gimlet Eye’s out there waitin’,” he announced.
“Yes, I know.” said Mr. Clackworthy; “Mrs. Bascom pressed the buzzer a moment ago. How do you size him up?”
“As nervous as a Pennsylvania millionaire about to meet King George,” chuckled The Early Bird; “say, that guy—”
“Watch your English, James.”
“Well, as I was gonna say, if you keep that gink—that man, I mean—out there very long he’s gonna wear th’ seat out of his pants th’ way he’s squirming around in th’ chair.”
“That’s fine, James; now you may retire to the outer office while I complete my conference with—ah—J. K. Remember my instructions and follow them to the letter.”
The Early Bird bowed solemnly to the empty chair across from Mr. Clackworthy, grinned, and made for the door.
“I’ve got it down pat,” he said.
In the outer office, James went to his desk, which stood but a few feet from where Mr. Prindivale was seated. Slowly he began to sort over a stack of papers which were heaped in front of him.
Mr. Prindivale edged his chair a few inches closer.
“Have a cigar,” he invited; “fine tobacco, very fine; import ’em myself direct. You have a very nice office here.”
“Uh-huh,” muttered The Early Bird, ignoring the cigar.
“By the way,” probed Mr. Prindivale, “I thought I saw my old friend J. K.—fellow banker of mine, you know—come in just ahead of me, does he transact much business with this firm?”
The Early Bird frowned in apparent annoyance.
“Never heard of ’im,” he mumbled, impolitely taking a cigar from his own pocket and lighting it, but, at the same time, he averted his eyes.
“Never heard of J. K.?” scoffed Mr. Prindivale with entirely justified skepticism. “Ha! Ha! That is quite a joke—sort of in the class with the fellow down in Arkansas who, when the orator shouted: ‘Lincoln is dead,’ declared that he didn’t even know that Lincoln was sick.”
“Never heard of ’im,” repeated The Early Bird with ridiculous obstinacy.
“I see,” nodded Mr. Prindivale, “it’s a dark secret; oh, I’m on.”
“On to what?”
“I know J. K. mighty well—personal friend of mine.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted The Early Bird noncommittally, and his pencil beat a little tattoo on his desk. In accordance with this signal, George Bascom removed the improvised paper shield from the draftsman’s board.
“Bascom!” snapped James. “I don’t want any more work on that just now; hasn’t Mr. Clackworthy told you—”
Hastily Bascom restored the pushpins and Mr. Prindivale’s nostrils quivered.
“Something big on foot—something mighty big,” he thought, and he leaned back in his chair, contracted his eyes thoughtfully and sought to reason it out.
VI.
At the end of thirty minutes Mr. Clackworthy gave the button on his desk three swift jabs and The Early Bird appeared.
“I got ’im goin’,” chuckled James. “He tried to pump me for all he was worth about this J. K. stuff.”
“James, you chew tobacco on occasions, do you not?” queried
