My unconscious guide led the way along Montgomery Street into an office
building, up a flight of stairs, and into a back hallway.
"Stay a moment," I said, as he had his hand on the door knob. "On
second thoughts you can wait down stairs."
He turned back, and as his footsteps echoed down the stair I opened the
door and entered the office.
As I crossed the threshold my heart gave a great bound, and I stopped
short. Before me sat Doddridge Knapp, the King of the Street, the man
for whom above all others in the world I felt loathing and fear.
Doddridge Knapp finished signing his name to a paper on his desk before
he looked up.
"Come in and sit down," he said. The voice was alert and businesslike--
the voice of a man accustomed to command. But I could find no trace of
feeling in it, nothing that could tell me of the hatred or desperate
purpose that should inspire such a tragedy as I had witnessed, or warn
me of danger to come.
"Do you hear?" he said impatiently; "shut the door and sit down. Just
spring that lock, will you? We might be interrupted."
I was not at all certain that I should not wish very earnestly that he
might be interrupted in what Bret Harte would call the "subsequent
proceedings." But I followed his directions.
Doddridge Knapp was not less impressive at close view than at long
range. The strong face grew stronger when seen from the near distance.
"My dear Wilton," he said, "I've come to a place where I've got to
trust somebody, so I've come back to you.
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