“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.