I studied the note carefully, and then turned to Policeman Corson.

“When did she give you this—and where?”

“A lady?” said Corson with a grin. “Ah, Mr. Wilton, it's too sly she is to give it to me. 'Twas a boy askin' for ye. 'Do you know him?' says he. 'I do that,' says I. 'Where is he?' says he. 'I don't know,' says I. 'Has 'e a room?' says he. 'He has,' says I. 'Where is it?' says he. 'What's that to you?' says I—”

“Yes, yes,” I interrupted. “But where did he get the note?”

“I was just tellin' ye, sor,” said the policeman amiably. “He shoves the note at me ag'in, an' says he, 'It's important,' says he. 'Go up there,' says I. 'Last room, top floor, right-hand side.' Before I comes to the corner up here, he's after me ag'in. 'He's gone,' says he. 'Like enough,' says I. 'When'll he be back?' says he. 'When the cows come home, sonny,' says I. 'Then there'll be the divil to pay,' says he. I pricks up my ears at this. 'Why?' says I. 'Oh, he'll be killed,' says he, 'and I'll git the derndest lickin',' says he. 'What's up?' says I, makin' a grab for him. But he ducks an' blubbers. 'Gimme that letter,' says I, 'and you just kite back to the folks that sent you, and tell them what's the matter. I'll give your note to your man if he comes while I'm on the beat,' says I. I knows too much to try to git anything more out of him. I says to meself that Mr. Wilton ain't in the safest place in the world, and this kid's folks maybe means him well, and might know some other place to look for him. The kid jaws a bit, an' then does as I tells him, an' cuts away. That's half an hour ago, an' here you are, an' here's your letter.”

I hesitated for a little before saying anything. It was with quick suspicion that I wondered why Mother Borton had secured again that gloomy and deserted house for the interview she was planning. That mystery of the night, with its memories of the fight in the bar-room, the escape up the stair, the fearsome moments I had spent locked in the vacant place, came on me with nerve-shaking force. It was more likely to be a trap than a meeting meant for my advantage. There was, indeed, no assurance that the note was written by Mother Borton herself. It might well be the product of the gentlemen who had been lending such variety to an otherwise uninteresting existence.

All these considerations flashed through my mind in the seconds of hesitation that passed before my reply to Policeman Corson's account.

“That was very kind of you. You didn't know what was in the letter then?”

“No, sor,” replied Corson with a touch of wounded pride. “It's not me as would open another man's letter, unless in the way of me duty.”

“Do you know Mother Borton?” I continued.

“Know her? know her?” returned Corson in a tone scornful of doubt on such a point. “Do I know the slickest crook in San Francisco? Ah, it's many a story I could tell you, Mr. Wilton, of the way that ould she-divil has slipped through our fingers when we thought our hands were on her throat. And it's many of her brood we have put safe in San Quentin.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said I dryly. “But the woman has done me a service—saved my life, I may say—and I'm willing to forget the bad in her.”

“That's not for me to say, sor; but there's quare things happens, no doubt.”

“This note,” I continued, “is written over her name. I don't know whether it came from her, or not; but if she sent it I must see her. It may be a case of life or death for me.”

“An' if it didn't come from her?” asked the policeman shrewdly.

“Then,” said I grimly, “it's likely to be a case of death if I venture alone.”

“I'll tell you what, Mr. Wilton,” said Corson after a pause. “If you'll wait a bit, I'll go with you—that is, if there isn't somebody else you'd like better to have by your side to-night. You don't look to have any of your friends about.”

“Just the thing,” I said heartily. “There's no one I'd rather have. We'll go down as soon as we can get a bite to eat.”

“I'll have to wait a bit, sor, till my relief comes. He'll be along soon. As for getting a bite, you can't do better than wait till you get to Mother Borton's. It's a rough place, but it's got a name for good cooking.”

I was bewildered.

“I guess there's not much to be got in the way of eating in the house. There was nothing left in it yesterday morning but the rats.” I spoke with considerable emphasis.

“That's square, now,” he said, looking to see if there was a jest behind the words. “But 'twas all there when McPherson and I put a club to a drunk as was raising the Ould Nick in the place and smashing the bottles, not six hours ago. When we took him away in the ixpriss wagon the ould woman was rowling out those long black curses in a way that would warm the heart of the foul fiend himself.”

There was some fresh mystery about this. I held my tongue with the reflection that I had better let it straighten itself out than risk a stumble by asking about things I ought to know.

Corson's relief soon appeared. “It's a nasty night,” he said, buttoning up his overcoat closely, as Corson gave him a brief report of the situation on the beat.

“It's good for them as likes it dark,” said Corson.

“It's just such a night as we had when Donaldson was murdered. Do you mind it?”

“Do I mind it? Am I likely to forgit it? Well, a pleasant time to you, me boy. Come along, sor. We'd better be moving. You won't mind stepping up to the hall with me, will ye, while I report?”

“Certainly not,” I said with a shiver, half at the grim suggestion of murder and half at the chill of the fog and the cutting wind that blew the cold vapor through to the skin.

“You've no overcoat,” said Corson. “We'll stop and get one. I'll have mine from the station.”

The silence of the house of mystery was no less threatening now than on the night when Henry Wilton was walking through the halls on the way to his death. But the stout-hearted policeman by my side gave me confidence, and no sign showed the presence of an enemy as I secured Henry's heavy overcoat and the large revolver he had given me, and we took our way down the stairs.

A short visit to the grimy, foul-smelling basement of the City Hall, where a few policemen looked at me wonderingly, a brisk walk with the cutting wind at our backs and the fog currents hurrying and whirling in eddies toward the bay, and I felt rather than saw that we were in the neighborhood of the scene of my adventures of a night that had come so near costing me my life. I could not be certain of my bearings, but I trusted to the unconscious guidance of Corson, with a confused idea that we were bearing away from the place. Then with relief combined with bewilderment, I saw the lantern sign give forth its promise of the varied entertainment that could be had at Borton's.

“Here we are,” said Corson.

We pushed open the door and entered. The place had the same appearance as the one to which I had been taken by Dicky Nahl.

“A fine night, Mother Borton,” said Corson cheerily, as he was the first to enter, and then added under his breath, “—for the divil's business.”

Mother Borton stared at him with a black look and muttered a curse.

“Good evening,” I hastened to say. “I took the liberty to bring a friend; he doesn't come as an officer to-night.”

The effect on the hag's features was marvelous. The black scowl lightened, the tight-drawn lips relaxed, and there was a sign of pleasure in the bright eyes that had flashed hatred at the policeman.

“Ah, it's you, is it?” she said sharply, but with a tone of kindness in her greeting. “I didn't see ye. Now sit down and find a table, and I'll be with ye after a bit.”

“We want a dinner, and a good one. I'm half-starved.”

“Are ye, honey?” said the woman with delight.

“Then it's the best dinner in town ye shall have. Here, Jim! Put these gentlemen over there at the corner table.”

And if the cooking was not what we could have had at the Maison DorÉe and the service was a little off color, neither of us was disposed to be critical.

“It's not the aristocracy of stoile ye get here,” said Corson, lighting his pipe after the coffee, “but it's prime eating.”

I nodded in lazy contentment, and then started up in remembrance of the occasion of our being in this place as the shadow of Mother Borton fell across the table. Her keen eyes fixed on me and her sharp beak nodding toward me gave her the uncanny aspect of a bird of prey, and I felt a sinking of courage as I met her glance.

“If you will go upstairs,” she said sourly. “You know the way. I guess your friend can spare you.”

“Is there anything that can't be told before him?” I asked.

The features of the old woman hardened.

“You'll be safer in my care than in his,” she said, with warning in her tone.

“Yes, yes, I know I am safe here, but how is it with my friend if I leave him here? We came together and we'll go together.”

The crone nodded with a laugh that ended in a snarl.

“If the gang knew he was here there would be more fun than you saw the other night.”

“Don't worry about me, Mr. Wilton,” said Corson with a grin. “I've stood her crowd off before, and I can do it again if the need comes. But I'd rather smoke a poipe in peace.”

“You can smoke in peace, but it's not yourself you can thank for it,” said Mother Borton sharply. “There'll be no trouble here to-night. Come along.” And the old woman started for the door.

“Are you sure you're all right?” asked Corson in a low voice. “There's men gone up those stairs that came down with a sheet over them.”

“It's all right—that is, unless there's any danger to you in leaving you here.”

“No. Go ahead. I'll wait for ye. I'd as lief sit here as anywheres.”

I hastened after Mother Borton, who was glowering at me from the doorway, and followed her footsteps in silence to the floor above. There was a dim light and a foul smell in the upper hall, both of which came from a lamp that burned with a low flame on a bracket by the forward stair. There were perhaps a dozen doors to be seen, all closed, but all giving the discomforting suggestion that they had eyes to mark my coming.

Mother Borton walked the passage cautiously and in silence, and I followed her example until she pushed open a door and was swallowed up in the blackness. Then I paused on the threshold while she lighted a candle; and as I entered, she swiftly closed and locked the door behind me.

“Sit down,” she said in a harsh voice, motioning me to a chair by the stand that held the candle. Then this strange creature seated herself in front of me, and looked steadily and sternly in my face for a full minute. The gaze of the piercing, deep-sunken eyes of the old hag, the evil lines that marked the lean, sharp features, gaining a still more sinister meaning from the wavering, flickering light thrown upon her face by the candle, gave me a feeling of anything but ease in my position.

“What have you done that I should help you?” she broke forth in a harsh voice, her eyes still fixed on my face.

“I really couldn't say,” I replied politely. “You have done me one or two services already. That's the best reason I know why you should do me another.”

The hard lines on the face before me relaxed at the sound of my voice, and the old woman nodded approvingly.

“Ay, reason enough, I guess. Them as wants better can find it themselves. But why did you sneak out of the house the other night like a cop in plain clothes? Didn't I go bail you were safe? Do you want any better word than mine?” she had begun almost softly, but the voice grew higher and harsher as she went on.

“Why,” I said, bewildered again, “the house sneaked away from me—or, at least you left me alone in it.”

“How was that?” she asked grimly. And I described graphically my experience in the deserted building.

As I proceeded with my tale an amused look replaced the harsh lines of suspicion on Mother Borton's face.

“Oh, my lud!” she cried with a chuckle. “Oh, my lud! how very green you are, my boy. Oh ho! oh ho!” And then she laughed an inward, self-consuming laugh that called up anything but the feeling of sympathetic mirth.

“I'm glad it amuses you,” I said with injured dignity.

“Oh, my liver! Don't you see it yet? Don't you see that you climbed into the next house back, and went through on to the other street?” And she relapsed into her state of silent merriment.

I felt foolish enough as the truth flashed over me. I had lost my sense of direction in the strange house, and had been deceived by the resemblance of the ground plan of the two buildings.

“But what about the plot?” I asked. “I got your note. It's very interesting. What about it?”

“What plot?”

“Why, I don't know. The one you wrote me about.”

Mother Borton bent forward and searched my face with her keen glance.

“Oh,” she said at last, “the one I wrote you about. I'd forgotten it.”

This was disheartening. How could I depend on one whose memory was thus capricious?

“Yes,” said I gloomily; “I supposed you might know something about it.”

“Show me the note,” she said sharply.

I fumbled through my pockets until I found it. Mother Borton clutched it, held it up to the candle, and studied it for two or three minutes.

“Where did you get it?”

I described the circumstances in which it had come into my possession, and repeated the essentials of Corson's story. Mother Borton's sharp, evil face was impassive during my recital. When it was done she muttered:

“Gimme a fool for luck.” Then she appeared to consider for a minute or more.

“Well?” said I inquiringly.

“Well, honey, you're having a run of the cards,” she said at last. “Between having the message trusted to a fool boy, and having a cop for your friend, an' maybe gitting this note before you're expected to, you're setting here genteel-like having agreeable conversation along with me, instead of being in company you mightn't like so well—or maybe floating out toward Fort Point.”

“So you didn't write it?” I said coolly. “I had an idea of the kind. That's why my friend Corson is smoking his pipe down stairs.”

Mother Borton gave me a pleased look and nodded. I hoped I had made her regret the cruel insinuation in her application of the proverb to me as the favorite of fortune.

“I see,” I said. “I was to be waylaid on the road here and killed.”

“Carried off, more likely. I don't say as it wouldn't end in killin' ye. But, you see, you'd be of mighty small use in tellin' tales if you was dead; but you might be got to talk if they had ye in a quiet place.”

“Good reasoning. But Henry Wilton was killed.”

“Yes,” admitted Mother Borton; “they thought he carried papers, and maybe they ain't got over the idea yit. It's jest as well you're here instid of having a little passear with Tom Terrill and Darby Meeker and their pals.”

“Well,” said I, as cheerfully as I could under the depressing circumstances, “if they want to kill me, I don't see how I can keep them from getting a chance sooner or later.”

Mother Borton looked anxious at this, and shook her head.

“You must call on your men,” she said decidedly. “You must have guards.”

“By the way,” I said, “that reminds me. The men haven't been paid, and they're looking to me for money.”

“Who's looking to you for money?”

“Dicky Nahl—and the others, I suppose.”

“Dicky Nahl?”

“Why, yes. He asked me for it.”

“And you gave it to him?” she asked sharply.

“No-o—that is, I gave him ten dollars, and told him he'd have to wait for the rest. I haven't got the money from the one that's doing the hiring yet, so I couldn't pay him.”

Mother Borton gave an evil grin, and absorbed another inward laugh.

“I reckon the money'll come all right,” said Mother Borton, recovering from her mirth. “There's one more anxious than you to have 'em paid, and if you ain't found out you'll have it right away. Now for guards, take Trent—no, he's hurt. Take Brown and Porter and Barkhouse and Fitzhugh. They're wide-awake, and don't talk much. Take 'em two and two, and never go without 'em, night or day. You stop here to-night, and I'll git 'em for you to-morrow.”

I declined the proffered hospitality with thanks, and as a compromise agreed to call for my bodyguard in the early morning. Rejoining Corson, I explained Mother Borton's theory of the plot that had brought me thither.

“She's like to be right,” said the policeman. “She knows the gang. Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll let the rats have your room for this night, and come along up to some foine hotel.”

The advice appeared good, and fifteen minutes later Corson was drinking my health at the Lick House bar, and calling on the powers of light and darkness to watch over my safety as I slept.

Whether due to his prayers or not, my sleep was undisturbed, even by dreams of Doddridge Knapp and his charming but scornful daughter; and with the full tide of life and business flowing through the streets in the morning hours I found myself once more in Mother Borton's dingy eating-room, ordering a breakfast.

Mother Borton ignored my entrance, and, perched on a high stool behind the bar and cash-drawer, reminded me of the vulture guarding its prey. But at last she fluttered over to my table and took a seat opposite.

“Your men are here,” she said shortly. And then, as I expressed my thanks, she warmed up and gave me a description by which I should know each and led me to the room where, as she said, they were “corralled.”

“By the way,” I said, halting outside the door, “they'll want some money, I suppose. Do you know how much?”

“They're paid,” she said, and pushed open the door before I could express surprise or ask further questions. I surmised that she had paid them herself to save me from annoyance or possible danger, and my gratitude to this strange creature rose still higher.

The four men within the room saluted me gravely and with Mother Borton's directions in mind I had no hesitation in calling each by his name. I was pleased to see that they were robust, vigorous fellows, and soon made my dispositions. Brown and Barkhouse were to attend me during daylight, and Fitzhugh and Porter were to guard together at night. And, so much settled, I hastened to the office.

No sign of Doddridge Knapp disturbed the morning, and at the noon hour I returned to the room in the house of mystery that was still my only fixed abode.

All was apparently as I had left it, except that a letter lay on the table.

“I must get a new lock,” was my comment, as I broke the seal. “This place is getting too public when every messenger has a key.” I was certain that I had locked the door when Corson and I had come out on the evening before.

The letter was from my unknown employer, and read:

“Richmond has paid the men. Be ready for a move at any moment. Leave your address if you sleep elsewhere.”

And now came three or four days of rest and quiet after the merry life I had been leading since my arrival in San Francisco.

No word did I get from Doddridge Knapp. I kept close watch of the stock market, and gossiped with speculators and brokers, for I wished to know at once if he had employed another agent. My work would lie in another direction if such should prove to be the case. But there was no movement in Omega, and I could hear no hint of another deal that might show a trace of his dexterous hand. “Quiet trading,” was the report from all quarters.

“Fact is,” said Wallbridge on the fourth day, trying to look doleful, “I haven't made enough this week to pay for the gas—and I don't burn any.”

In the interval I improved my time by getting better acquainted with the city. Emboldened by my body-guard, I slept for two nights in Henry's room, and with one to watch outside the door, one lying on a mattress just inside, and a new lock and bolt, I was free from disturbance.

Just as I had formed a wild idea of looking up Doddridge Knapp in his home, I came to the office in the morning to find the door into Room 16 wide open and the farther door ajar.

“Come in, Wilton,” said the voice of the King of the Street; and I entered his room to find him busied over his papers, as though nothing had occurred since I had last met him.

“The market has had something of a vacation.” I ventured, as he failed to speak.

“I have been out of town,” he said shortly. “What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

He gave a grunt of assent.

“You didn't expect me to be buying up the market, did you?” The yellow-gray mustache went up, and the wolf-fangs gleamed from beneath.

“I reckon it wouldn't have been a very profitable speculation,” he replied.

Then he leaned back in his chair and looked meditatively at the wall.

“It was for one fellow, though,” he continued, mellowing as he mused in his recollections. “It was at the time of the Honest Injun deal—I guess you don't remember that. It must have been ten years ago. Well, I had a fellow named—why, what was his name?—oh, Riggs, or Rix, I forget which,—and he was handling about a hundred thousand dollars for me. We had Honest Injun run up from one dollar till it was over twenty dollars a share. I had to go up to Nevada City, and left ten thousand shares with him with orders to sell at twenty-five.”

“Yes,” I said, as the King of the Street paused and seemed inclined to drop the story. “At twenty-five.”

“Well,” he continued at this encouragement, “when I came back, Honest Injun was down to ten cents, or somewhere around there, which was just about as I expected. Riggs comes up to me as proud as a spotted pup, and tells me that he'd sold at thirty dollars, and cleared fifty thousand more than I'd expected.”

“A pretty good deal,” I suggested.

“It happened that way, but it wouldn't happen so once in ten years. The stock had gone up to thirty-one or thirty-two before it broke, and he had sold just in time.”

“Did he get a reward?” I asked, as my employer appeared to wait for an observation from me.

“He did,” said the Wolf with a growl. “I discharged him on the spot. And hanged if I didn't tell him that the fifty thousand was his—and let him have it, too. Oh, he was playing in great luck! That combination wouldn't come twice in a thousand years. The next man who tried it went to jail,” he added with a snap of the jaws.

“Quite correct,” I said. “Orders must be obeyed.”

“Just remember that,” he said significantly. “Have you heard anything more of Decker?”

“I've heard enough to satisfy me that he's the man who got the Omega stock.”

“What other deal is he in?” asked the King of the Street.

“I don't know.”

The King of the Street smiled indulgently.

“Well, you've got something to learn yet. I'll give you till next week to find the answer to that question.”

I was convinced from his air that he had information on both these points himself, and was merely trying my knowledge.

“I'll not be back before next Wednesday,” he concluded.

“Going away again?” I asked in surprise.

“I'm off to Virginia City,” he replied after considering for a little. “I'm not sure about Omega, after all—and there's another one I want to look into. You needn't mention my going. When I come back we'll have a campaign that will raise the roof of every Board in town. No orders till then unless I telegraph you. That's all.”

The King of the Street seemed straightforward enough in his statement of plans, and it did not occur to me to distrust him while I was in his presence. Yet, once more in my office, with the locked door between, I began to doubt, and tried to find some hidden meaning in each word and look. What plan was he revolving in that fertile brain? I could not guess. The mystery of the great speculator was beyond my power to fathom. And we worked, each in ignorance of the other's purposes, and went the appointed road.