The gray pall of the storm hung over San Francisco. The dim light of the morning scarcely penetrated into the hallways as we climbed the stairs that led to our lodgings, leaving behind us the trail of dripping garments. I heaved a sigh of relief as Trent opened the door, and we once more faced the pleasing prospect of warmth, dry clothing and friends.

We had made the run from Niles without incident, and had left the engine on a siding at Brooklyn without being observed. If the railroad company still has curiosity, after all these years, to know how that engine got from Niles to Brooklyn, I trust that the words I have just written may be taken as an explanation and apology.

“Where's Barkhouse?” I asked, becoming comfortable once more with dry clothes, a warm room and a fresh bandage on my arm.

“He hasn't shown up, sir,” said Trent. “Owens and Larson went out to look for him toward evening yesterday, but there wasn't a sign of him.”

“Try again to-day. You may pick up news at Borton's or some of the water-front saloons.”

“Oh, there was a letter for you,” said Trent. “I near forgot.”

I snatched the envelope, for the address was in the hand of the Unknown. The sheet within bore the words:

“Where is the boy? Have you removed him? Send the key to Richmond. Let me know when you return, for I must see you as soon as it is safe.”

I read the note three or four times, and each time I was more bewildered than before. I had left the boy in Livermore, but certainly he was not the one she meant. He was the “wrong boy,” and my employer must be well aware that I had taken him at her orders. Or could that expedition be a jest of the enemy to divert my attention? I dismissed this theory as soon as it suggested itself.

But where was the “right boy”? I had for a moment a sinking feeling of terror in the thought that the enemy had captured him. Mother Borton's warning that they had found his place of hiding returned to confirm this thought. But in an instant I remembered that the enemy had followed me in force to Livermore in chase of the wrong boy, and had attacked me in pure chagrin at the trick that had been played on them. That showed me beyond question that they had not obtained possession of the right boy. And the “key” that I was to send to Richmond, what was that?

The closing portion of the note set my heart beating fast. At last I was to have the opportunity to meet my mysterious employer face to face. But what explanation was I to make? What reception would I meet when she learned that Henry Wilton had given up his life in her service, and that I, who had taken his place, could tell nothing of the things she wished to know?

I wrote a brief note to Richmond stating that I had no key, inclosed the Unknown's note, with the remark that I had returned, and gave it to Owens to deliver. I was in some anxiety lest he might not know where Richmond was to be found. But he took the note without question, and I lay down with orders that I was to be called in time to reach the opening session of the stock market, and in a moment was fast asleep.

The Stock Exchange was a boiling and bubbling mass of excited men as I reached it. Pine Street, wet and sloppy, was lined with a mob of umbrellas that sheltered anxious speculators of small degree, and the great building was thronged with the larger dealers—with millionaires and brokers, with men who were on their way to fortune, and those who had been millionaires and now were desperately struggling against the odds of fate as they saw their wealth swept away in the gamblers' whirlpool.

I shouldered my way through the crowd into the buzzing Board-room as the session opened. Excitement thrilled the air, but the opening was listless. All knew that the struggle over Omega was to be settled that day, and that Doddridge Knapp or George Decker was to find ruin at the end of the call, and all were eager to hasten the decisive moment.

Wallbridge came panting before me, his round, bald head bobbing with excitement.

“Ready for the fray, eh? Oh, it's worth money to see this. Talk of your theaters now, eh? Got any orders?”

“Not yet,” I returned, hardly sharing the little man's enjoyment of the scene. The size of the stakes made me tremble.

I could see nothing of Doddridge Knapp, and the uneasy feeling that he was at Livermore came over me. What was my duty in case he did not appear? Had he left his fortune at the mercy of the market to follow his lawless schemes? Had he been caught in his own trap, and was he now to be ruined as the result of his own acts? For a moment I felt a vengeful hope that he might have come to grief. But when I remembered that it was Luella who must suffer with him, I determined to make an effort to save the deal, even without authority, if the money or credit for buying the remaining shares was to be had.

I might have spared my worry. The call had not proceeded far, when the massive form of Doddridge Knapp appeared at the railing. The strong wolf-marks of the face were stronger than ever as he watched the scene on the floor. I looked in vain for a trace upon him of last night's work. If he had been at Livermore, he showed no sign of the passions or anxieties that had filled the dark hours.

He nodded carelessly for me to come to him as he caught my eye.

“You have the stock?”

“All safe.”

“And the proxies?”

“Just as you ordered.”

The King of the Street looked at me sharply.

“I told you to keep sober till this deal was over,” he growled.

“You are obeyed,” I said. “I have not touched a drop.”

“Well, you look as though you had taken a romp with the devil,” he said.

“I have,” I returned with a meaning look.

His eyes fell before my steady gaze, and he turned them on the noisy throng before us.

“Any orders?” I asked at last.

“Be where I can call you the minute I want you,” he replied.

“Now, my boy,” he continued after a minute, “you are going to see what hasn't been seen in the Boards for years, and I reckon you'll never see it again.”

“What is it?” I asked politely. I was prepared for almost any kind of fire-works in that arena.

Doddridge Knapp made no reply, but raised his hand as if to command silence, and a moment later the call of Omega was heard. And, for a marvel, a strange stillness did fall on the throng.

At the word of call I saw Doddridge Knapp step down to the floor of the pit, calm, self-possessed, his shoulders squared and his look as proud and forceful as that of a monarch who ruled by the might of his sword, while a grim smile played about his stern mouth.

The silence of the moment that followed was almost painful. In that place it seemed the most unnatural of prodigies. Brokers, speculators and spectators were as surprised as I, and a long-drawn “Ah-h!” followed by a buzzing as of a great swarm of bees greeted his appearance. The stillness and the buzzing seemed to take an hour, but it could not have been as much as a minute when the voice of Doddridge Knapp rang like a trumpet through the Boardroom.

“Five hundred for Omega!”

This was a wild jump from the three hundred and twenty-five that was marked against the stock at the close on Saturday, but I supposed the King of the Street knew what he was about.

At the bid of Doddridge Knapp a few cries rose here and there, and he was at once the center of a group of gesticulating brokers. Then I saw Decker, pale, eager, alert, standing by the rail across the room, signaling orders to men who howled bids and plunged wildly into the crowd that surrounded his rival.

The bids and offers came back and forth with shouts and barks, yet they made but a murmur compared to the whirlwind of sound that had arisen from the pit at the former struggles I had witnessed. There seemed but few blocks of the stock on the market. Yet the air was electric with the tense strain of thousands of minds eager to catch the faintest indication of the final result, and I found it more exciting than the wildest days of clamor and struggle.

“This is great,” chuckled Wallbridge, taking post before me. “There hasn't been anything like it since Decker captured Chollar in the election of seventy-three. You don't remember that, I guess?”

“I wasn't in the market then,” I admitted.

“Lord! Just to hear that!” cried the stout little man, mopping his glistening head frantically and quivering with nervous excitement. “Doddridge Knapp bids fifteen hundred for the stock and only gets five shares. Oh, why ain't I a chance to get into this?”

I heard a confused roar, above which rose the fierce tones of Doddridge Knapp.

“How many shares has he got to-day?” I asked.

“Not forty yet.”

“And the others?”

“There's been about two thousand sold.”

I gripped the rail in nervous tension. The battle seemed to be going against the King of the Street.

“Oh!” gasped Wallbridge, trembling with excitement. “Did you hear that? There! It's seventeen hundred—now it's seventeen-fifty! Whew!”

I echoed the exclamation.

“Oh, why haven't I got ten thousand shares?” he groaned.

“Who is getting them?”

“Knapp got the last lot. O-oh, look there! Did you ever see the like of that?”

I looked. Decker, hatless, with hair disheveled, had leaped the rail and was hurrying into the throng that surrounded Doddridge Knapp.

“There was never two of 'em on the floor before,” cried Wallbridge.

At Decker's appearance the brokers opened a lane to him, the cries fell, and there was an instant of silence, as the kings of the market thus came face to face.

I shall never forget the sight. Doddridge Knapp, massive, calm, forceful, surveyed his opponent with unruffled composure. He was dressed in a light gray-brown suit that made him seem larger than ever. Decker was nervous, disheveled, his dress of black setting off the pallor of his face, till it seemed as white as his shirt bosom, as he fronted the King of the Street.

The foes faced each other, watchful as two wrestlers looking to seize an opening, and the Board-room held its breath. Then the crowd of brokers closed in again and the clamor rose once more.

I could not make out the progress of the contest, but the trained ear of Wallbridge interpreted the explosions of inarticulate sound.

“Phew! listen to that! Two thousand, twenty-one hundred, twenty-one fifty. Great snakes! See her jump!” he cried. “Decker's getting it.”

My heart sank. Doddridge Knapp must have smothered his brain once more in the Black Smoke, and was now paying the price of indulgence. And his plans of wealth were a sacrifice to the wild and criminal scheme into which he had entered in his contest against the Unknown. I saw the wreck of fortune engulf Mrs. Knapp and Luella, and groaned in spirit. Then a flash of hope shot through me. Luella Knapp, the heiress to millions, was beyond my dreams, but Luella Knapp, the daughter of a ruined speculator, would not be too high a prize for a poor man to set his eyes upon.

The clang of the gong recalled me from the reverie that had shut out the details of the scene before me.

“There! Did you hear that?” groaned Wall-bridge. “Omega closes at two thousand six hundred and Decker takes every trick. Oh, why didn't you have me on the floor out there? By the great horn spoon, I'd 'a' had every share of that stock, and wouldn't 'a' paid more than half as much for it, neither.”

I sighed and turned, sick at heart, to meet the King of the Street as he shouldered his way from the floor.

There was not a trace of his misfortune to be read in his face. But Decker, the victor, moved away like a man oppressed, pale, staggering, half-fainting, as though the nervous strain had brought him to the edge of collapse.

Doddridge Knapp made his way to the doors and signed me to follow him, but spoke no word until we stood beside the columns that guard the entrance.

The rain fell in a drizzle, but anxious crowds lined the streets, dodged into doorways for shelter, or boldly moved across the walks and the cobbled roadway under the protection of bobbing umbrellas. The news of the unprecedented jump in Omega in which the price had doubled thrice in a few minutes, had flown from mouth to mouth, and excitement was at fever heat.

“That was warm work,” said Doddridge Knapp after a moment's halt.

“I was very sorry to have it turn out so,” I said.

A grim smile passed over his face.

“I wasn't,” he growled good-humoredly. “I thought it was rather neatly done.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, I forgot that I hadn't seen you,” he continued. “And like enough I shouldn't have told you if I had. The truth is, I found a block of four thousand shares on Saturday night, and made a combination with them.”

“Then the mine is yours?”

“The directors will be.”

“But you were buying shares this morning.”

“A mere optical illusion, Wilton. I was in fact a seller, for I had shares to spare.”

“It was a very good imitation.”

“I don't wonder you were taken in, my boy. Decker was fooled to the tune of about a million dollars this morning. I thought it was rather neat for a clean-up.”

I thought so, too, and the King of the Street smiled at my exclamations over his cleverness. But my congratulations were cut short as a small dark man pressed his way to the corner where we stood, and whispered in Doddridge Knapp's ear.

“Was he sure?” asked the King of the Street.

“Those were his exact words.”

“When was this?”

“Not five minutes ago.”

“Run to Caswell's. Tell him to wait for me.”

The messenger darted off and we followed briskly. Caswell, I found, was an attorney, and we were led at once to the inner office.

“Come in with me,” said my employer. “I expect I shall need you, and it will save explanations.”

The lawyer was a tall, thin man, with chalky, expressionless features, but his eyes gave life to his face with their keen, almost brilliant, vision.

“Decker's playing the joker,” said the King of the Street. “I've beaten him in the market, but he's going to make a last play with the directors. There's a meeting called for twelve-thirty. They are going to give him a two years' contract for milling, and they talk of declaring twenty thousand shares of my stock invalid.”

“How many directors have you got?”

“Two—Barber and myself. Decker thinks he has Barber.”

“Then you want an injunction?”

“Yes.”

The lawyer looked at his watch.

“The meeting is at twelve-thirty. H'm. You'll have to hold them for half an hour—maybe an hour.”

“Make it half an hour,” growled Doddridge Knapp. “Just remember that time is worth a thousand dollars a second till that injunction is served.”

He went out without another word, and there was a commotion of clerks as we left.

“How's your nerve, Wilton?” inquired the King of the Street calmly. “Are you ready for some hot work?”

“Quite ready.”

“Have you a revolver about you?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. I don't want you to kill any one, but it may come in handy as an evidence of your good intentions.”

He led the way to California Street below Sansome, where we climbed a flight of stairs and went down a hall to a glass door that bore the gilt and painted letters, “Omega Mining Co., J. D. Storey, Pres't.”

“There's five minutes to spare,” said my employer. “He may be alone.”

A stout, florid man, with red side-whiskers and a general air of good living, sat by an over-shadowing desk in the handsome office, and looked sourly at us as we entered. He was not alone, for a young man could be seen in a side room that was lettered “Secretary's Office.”

“Ah, Mr. Knapp,” he said, bowing deferentially to the millionaire, and rubbing his fat red hands. “Can I do anything for you to-day?”

“I reckon so, Storey. Let me introduce you to Mr. Wilton, one of our coming directors.”

I had an inward start at this information, and Mr. Storey regarded me unfavorably. We professed ourselves charmed to see each other.

“I suppose it was an oversight that you didn't send me a notice of the directors' meeting,” said Doddridge Knapp.

Mr. Storey turned very red, and the King of the Street said in an undertone: “Just lock that door, Wilton.”

“It must have been sent by mail,” stammered Storey. “Hi, there! young man, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as I turned the key in the lock. “Open that door again!”

“No you don't, Storey,” came the fierce growl from the throat of the Wolf. “Your game is up.”

“The devil it is!” cried Storey, making a dash past Doddridge Knapp and coming with a rush straight for me.

“Stop him!” roared my employer.

I sprang forward and grappled Mr. Storey, but I found him rather a large contract, for I had to favor my left arm. Then he suddenly turned limp and rolled to the floor, his head thumping noisily on a corner of the desk.

Doddridge Knapp coolly laid a hard rubber ruler down on the desk, and I recognized the source of Mr. Storey's discomfiture.

“I reckon he's safe for a bit,” he growled. “Hullo, what's this?”

I noted a very pale young man in the doorway of the secretary's office, apparently doubtful whether he should attempt to raise an alarm or hide.

“You go back in your room and mind your own business, Dodson,” said the King of the Street. “Go!” he growled fiercely, as the young man still hesitated. “You know I can make or break you.”

The young man disappeared, and I closed and locked the door on him.

“There they come,” said I, as steps sounded in the hall.

“Stand by the door and keep them out,” whispered my employer. “I'll see that Storey doesn't get up. Keep still now. Every minute we gain is worth ten thousand dollars.”

I took station by the door as the knob was tried. More steps were heard, and the knob was tried again. Then the door was shaken and picturesque comments were made on the dilatory president.

Doddridge Knapp looked grim, but serene, as he sat on the desk with his foot on the prostrate Storey. I breathed softly, and listened to the rising complaints from without.

There were thumps and kicks on the door, and at last a voice roared:

“What are you waiting for? Break it in.”

A crash followed, and the ground-glass upper section of the door fell in fragments.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” I said, as a man put his hand through the opening. “This revolver is loaded, and the first man to come through there will get a little cold lead in him.”

There was a pause and then a storm of oaths.

“Get in there!” cried Decker's voice from the rear. “What are you afraid of?”

“He's got a gun.”

“Well, get in, three or four of you at once. He can't shoot you all.”

This spirited advice did not seem to find favor with the front-rank men, and the enemy retired for consultation. At last a messenger came forward.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to keep out.”

“Who is he?” asked Decker's voice.

“There's another one there,” cried another voice. “Why, it's Doddridge Knapp!”

Decker made use of some language not intended for publication, and there was whispering for a few minutes, followed by silence.

I looked at Doddridge Knapp, sitting grim and unmoved, counting the minutes till the injunction should come. Suddenly a man bounded through the broken upper section of the door, tossed by his companions, and I found myself in a grapple before I could raise my revolver.

We went down on the floor together, and I had a confused notion that the door swung open and four or five others rushed into the room.

I squirmed free from my opponent, and sprang to my feet in time to see the whole pack around Doddridge Knapp.

The King of the Street sat calm and forceful with a revolver in his hand, and all had halted, fearing to go farther.

“Don't come too close, gentlemen,” growled the Wolf.

Then I saw one of the men raise a six-shooter to aim at the defiant figure that faced them. I gave a spring and with one blow laid the man on the floor. There was a flash of fire as he fell, and a deafening noise was in my ears. Men all about me were striking at me. I scarcely felt their blows as I warded them off and returned them, for I was half-mad with the desperate sense of conflict against odds. But at last I felt myself seized in an iron grip, and in a moment was seated beside Doddridge Knapp on the desk.

“The time is up,” he said. “There's the sheriff and Caswell with the writ.”

“I congratulate you,” I answered, my head still swimming, noting that the enemy had drawn back at the coming of reinforcements.

“Good heavens, man, you're hurt!” he cried, pointing to my left sleeve where a blood stain was spreading. The wound I had received in the night conflict at Livermore had reopened in the struggle.

“It's nothing,” said I. “Just a scratch.”

“Here! get a doctor!” cried the King of the Street. “Gentlemen, the directors' meeting is postponed, by order of court.”