“All right - go to it. Hurry up to the Kirk Building. And don’t let this sudden attack of energy die there. Hurry back, too.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed the reporter. “Of course, I’ll need a bit of dinner -“

“I never eat,” growled his charming employer.

Bill Rankin sped across the city room. His fellow reporters were drifting in now from their afternoon assignments, and the place was coming to life. Near the door, Egbert, black as the night from pole to pole, crossed Rankin’s path with haughty, aloof manner and dignified stride.

Descending to the street, the reporter stood for a moment undecided. The Kirk Building was not far away; he could walk there - but time was precious. Suppose he arrived to be met by the news that Sir Frederic was dressing for dinner. With this famous and correct Englishman, the act would be a sacred rite not to be lightly interrupted by panting pressmen. No, he must reach Sir Frederic before the detective reached for his black pearl studs. He hailed a passing taxi.

As the car drew up to the curb, a red-cheeked boy, one of the Globe’s younger reporters, emerged from the crowd and with a deep bow, held open the taxi door.

“To the Royal Opera, my good man,” he shouted, “and an extra gold sovereign for you if we pass the Duke’s car on the way.”

Rankin pushed the facetious one aside. “Don’t interfere with your betters, my lad,” he remarked, and added, to the driver: “The Kirk Building, on California Street.”

The taxi swung out into Market Street, followed the intricate car tracks for a few blocks, and turned off into Montgomery. In another moment they were in the financial district of San Francisco, now wrapped in its accustomed evening calm. The huge buildings of trust companies, investment houses and banks stood solemn and solid in the dusk; across the doorways of many, forbidding bronze gates were already shut. Gilded signs met Rankin’s eye - “The Yokohama Bank”; on another window, “The Shanghai Trading Company”; one may not forget the Orient in the city by the Gate. Presently the taxi drew up before a twenty-story office building, and Rankin alighted.

The Kirk Building was architecturally perfect, in the excellent taste that had marked the family ever since the first Dawson Kirk had made his millions and gone his way. Now it was the particular hobby of young Barry Kirk, who lived in bachelor splendor in the spacious but breezy bungalow on its roof. Its pure white lobby was immaculate; its elevator girls trim and pretty in neat uniforms; its elevator starter resplendent as an Admiral of the Fleet. At this hour the fever of the day was ended and cleaning women knelt reverently on the marble floor. One elevator was still running, and into this Bill Rankin stepped.

“All the way,” he said to the girl.

He alighted at the twentieth floor, the final stop. A narrow stair led to Barry Kirk’s bungalow, and the reporter ascended two steps at a time. Pausing before an imposing door, he rang. The door opened and Paradise, Kirk’s English butler, stood like a bishop barring Rankin’s path.

“Ah - er - I’m back,” panted Rankin.

“So I see, sir.” Very like a bishop indeed, with that great shock of snow-white hair. His manner was not cordial. Earlier that day he had admitted many reporters, but with misgivings.

“I must see Sir Frederic at once. Is he in?”

“Sir Frederic is in the offices, on the floor below. I fancy he is busy, but I will announce you -“

“No - please don’t trouble,” said Rankin quickly. Running down to the twentieth floor, he noted a door with Barry Kirk’s name on the frosted glass. As he moved toward it, it opened suddenly, and a young woman came out.

Rankin stopped in his tracks.