places. There was a map of San Francisco and its environments reaching from Valego to Santa Clara. There were maps of Redwood and San Jose, Belmont and San Mateo, Oakland and San Rafael and others.

George looked at the maps, whilst Hank sat down and looked at the morning’s correspondence spread on the table by the office boy.

These maps and town plans, marked here and there with red ink, spoke of big dealings and a prosperous business; the trail of Fisher and Company was over them all. They interested George vastly. It was the first time he had been in the office.

12

12

“I say, old man,” said George, suddenly breaking silence and detaching himself from the maps. “I didn’t know you had a company attached to you. Where’s the company?”

“Well, I expect it’s in Europe by this,” said Hank, laying down the last of his letters. “Or sunning itself on Palm Beach, or listening to the band somewhere. It bolted with the cash box three weeks ago, leaving me a thousand dollars to carry on with.”

“Good Lord,” said George, horror-stricken, yet amazed at the coolness of the other and the way he had managed to keep his disaster concealed from all and sundry; for at the Club Hank was considered a man of substance, almost too much substance for a Bohemian.

“It’s true,” said Hank.

“How many men were in it?”

“No men, it was a woman.”

“You were in partnership with a woman?”

“Yep.”

“Well, she might have done worse,” said George, “she might have married you.”

Hank, by way of reply, took a photograph from a drawer in the table and handed it to George, who gazed at it for half a minute and handed it back.

“I see,” said he, “but what made you have anything to do with her?”

The town lot speculator tilted back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

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